


Every Tuesday and Thursday in Islamabad

by Laure001



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-03-16
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laure001/pseuds/Laure001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- And what do you want from me, Quinn, anyway? said Carrie. A one night stand? What?</p><p>
  <b>Complete! </b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One (One-Night Stand)

**Author's Note:**

> (Alternate title: The One Where They All Make Good Decisions)
> 
> During season 4, in Islamabad, in a timeline where Saul doesn’t get kidnapped, and where Khan doesn’t reveal the traitor’s name to Carrie.  
> 

It all began because of Max.

Fucking Max. He wanted to impress Fara with gossip, so he told her that Quinn was in love with Carrie – Virgil was sure of it, Max said. And Fara talked, or somebody else talked, and suddenly it was everywhere in the embassy, just office rumors.

Carrie would have dismissed them, except for Quinn’s reaction. He had turned very pale when he heard, and from that day his behavior completely changed. He became… obnoxious. Well, more obnoxious. More – everything, actually, more aggressive, more silent. And when he wasn’t silent, he yelled at her – numerous times – in front of everybody. Carrie yelled back at him, of course, and there was bickering, but not their habitual bickering. It felt like Quinn hated her, like he truly hated her, and she couldn’t stand it.

So on Thursday morning she said:

\- Quinn, we have to talk.

He looked around him, for a way out – like a caged animal. Clearly wanting to be everywhere but here. But Carrie didn’t back down.

\- Follow me, please…

The office on the left was empty. She closed the door behind them, while he just looked at her, at a safe distance, arms crossed. The incarnation of hostility.

\- Quinn, we can’t go on like that, she sighed.

\- Like what?

\- Listen… I know Max is wrong. I know you’re not in love with me, ok? You don’t need to act like my personal fucking enemy every hour of every fucking day, just to prove it. I’m fucking sick of it. You are my friend… And a trusted colleague, a trusted… partner. And now I’m losing you, because… what? Because of a stupid thing Max said? I’m just… Can you stop it, Quinn? Please. Again, I know you’re not in love with me. Just… Just fucking stop it.

Quinn was silent. Looking at her. Staring, his eyes so dark, almost black.

The silence kept going forever. Carrie hesitated, feeling awkward, on display. Then, he said:

\- Tonight. You and me. Dinner, at that Italian restaurant, at The Marriott.

She stuttered.

\- Wha-at?

\- Dinner. Together. Tonight. So?

It was not the offer that surprised her so much as the tone. The hostility. The… hatred?

\- OK, she said finally. Sure.

\- It’s a date, he added, with the same undercurrent of anger. Not a dinner between colleagues, a date. Ok?

\- Ok.

She was speaking very calmly now, observing him – trying to read him, trying to analyze the situation – and her scrutiny seemed to exasperate him even more, so she asked:

\- So… what? The Marriott? I just meet you there?

\- Yeah. See you at 8.

And that was the end of the conversation.

**

At 8, Carrie was at the restaurant. Dressed for… a date, except she didn’t want to seem like she had dressed for a date, because, how strange was this situation, really. And she would have felt awkward with a dress, and cleavage and stuff, with Quinn, so she just wore a pantsuit, but a very nice, black pantsuit, and some light make up. When she approached the table he was already there – a completely transformed man.

Serene and smiling, dressed to kill with black trousers and a very, very nice (ironed) white shirt. Granted, the smile was a bit artificial – or, maybe, not exactly artificial, more, like, professional.

\- Geez, look at you, she said.

He stood up, and even draw her chair for her – all this very gallant, very smooth, very…

\- You’re very… “James Bond”, tonight, she added, before sitting down and eyeing him suspiciously. Quinn, the dinner, the… What the fuck are you doing?

He sat down, poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.

\- I’m seducing you.

\- You… I’m sorry?

\- I’m seducing you, he repeated, with one of those James Bond smiles, that were clearly fabricated, but not without sex appeal. See, I am not in love with you…

…and if at that precise moment he was looking at the wine bottle and not at her, Carrie didn’t notice, because she was so flummoxed by the conversation…

\- But all this gossip made me think, he continued. About us. I’m not in love with you, but I do like you.

And now he was looking at her, right into her eyes.

\- And I want to fuck you. So, I am seducing you.

\- Well… I… That’s…, Carrie answered.

She took a sip of wine, trying to assess the situation. She was… astonished, but intrigued. Such a change from the preceding days, when he had been so distant and hurtful. Well. Ok. It was a surprise. And a challenge. And more than that, it was awakening something in her. Something warm. Something deep.

\- Ok, I’m definitely curious, she said slowly. (Then she shot him a smile, a real one, and Quinn gave a real one in return.) You know it’s against the rules, though. This kind of fraternizing.

\- I don’t give a fuck.

\- Ok then. All right. Go. On to the seduction thing. I’m listening.

\- Well, first, I ordered a bottle of champagne, for the James Bond vibe.

\- We already have wine.

\- Yep.

\- So your seduction method is basically getting me drunk.

\- Absolutely not. I’ll have you know that we had seduction classes, in Black Ops.

\- You’re kidding.

\- It was called the Casanova Course.

\- I don’t believe it.

\- Dar Adal taught it.

She really laughed at that one, and was recompensed with a huge smile from Quinn, another real one, and the champagne arrived, and while Quinn was talking to the waiter, she realized… that for the first time in weeks, months perhaps, she was kind of relaxing.  Yes, there were undercurrents, there always were, with Quinn, and there was even a power play somewhere, but she didn’t care.

Or maybe it just made things more interesting.

\- Ok, so, what is in this mysterious “Casanova Course”, which, by the way, is so clearly an invention of your deluded mind? What is the modus operandi to get into a girl’s pants, Quinn? Please enlighten me.

\- The first method is basic: looking right into the eyes of the lady, and complimenting her.

\- Oh come on. That’s so cheesy.

\- Yep, but it works.

\- No. Not on a woman with a brain, it doesn’t.

\- Let’s see.

He stood up, while Carrie, a little nervous, was following his every movement. Then he drew his chair very close to her. He sat down, took Carrie’s hands into his, stared at her for a few seconds, and whispered:

\- I like it when you smile.

Then he stood up again and got his chair back to where it belonged, leaving Carrie… a little rattled, to be honest.

\- So? he asked, sipping his champagne.

\- Ok, she said, laughing, trying to hide her emotion. (No. If this was a game, she needed to play it honestly.) All right, Quinn. I’ll admit: it worked. Kind of. But you took my hands. Touching is cheating.

\- Touching is not cheating. Touching is an essential part of the process, he added, smiling again, and Carrie thought how frustrating it was that he didn’t seem rattled at all, he seemed pretty smug, in fact, and her competitive streak flared up.

\- Well it’s not enough to earn you a fuck.

\- Classy.

\- You started it.

\- I like it. I always did.

\- My lack of class?

\- Your frankness. Bordering on vulgarity. It’s… endearing.

\- Is it a real compliment, or are you still on method number one?

\- Both. Method number two is to be funny. You have to make the lady laugh.

\- Oh, now you’re kidding. This is so cliché, it’s just…

\- … But I’m not going to try it. I’m not a fun guy.

\- Thank God. And no, you’re… definitely not funny. You’re pretty intense, in fact.

Quinn nodded, then continued, with a strange gleam in his eyes.

\- The third method is creating intimacy.

\- How? Carrie said, genuinely intrigued.

\- Well, there are a number of ways…

His voice trailed off, but the gleam was still there, and Carrie felt serious for an instant, like, pretty dead serious, like there was a possibility there, a potential, and she had to take a sip of champagne, again, to disguise her reaction, because this sudden rush of emotion was not part of the game, and it scared her a little.

\- This is so strange, Quinn, she said, sincerely. Today, yesterday… You were just awful to me. And now…

Peter Quinn didn’t answer, didn’t look at her, and Carrie felt the undercurrents again, and thinking about it, it was really weird, wasn’t it, this sudden turn of events – from downright rage to trying… what?

\- You can’t create intimacy, Quinn, she said. Not you. You’re just not… I don’t know, wired for it.

\- Really? he said, his tone perfectly neutral.

\- And what do you want from me anyway? A one night stand? What?

\- Come on Carrie, you don’t get to know in advance. The surprise is part of the process. You don’t ask what James Bond wants from the pretty Russian spy, do you? Or, more accurately… you know exactly what he wants. And that is what I want too, he said, taking Carrie’s hands in his again, and kissing them, but still with this “professional seducer” attitude, and Carrie was not sure she liked that kind of roleplaying, after all, so she leaned towards him and said:

\- Ok.

\- Ok what?

\- I want to play too.

\- Yes?

\- The intimacy thing. I want to play. I’m gonna ask questions. To you. About you.

\- Carrie, I can’t… I’m classified. I mean, a lot of things, about me…. Most of the things are classified.

\- I don’t give a fuck. (She looked at him for a few moments.) You play or you don’t. And I’m going to make you a deal. A kiss for each answer.

It was his turn to be flummoxed. He actually froze – for two good seconds – before saying.

\- Ok.

There was a silence. Carrie’s heart was beating hard.

\- What is your name? Your first name.

\- Peter.

\- But…

\- “Quinn” was their choice, and I was permitted to pick my own first name, so I kept mine.

\- So… not “John”?

\- No. The John thing… I was on a mission. Had a fake identity. (Silence.) Was that a second question?

Carrie reached into her bag, pulled out a pen and a notebook, ripped out a piece of paper, and draw two crosses on it.

\- Ok. Two answers. Check. Where did you grew up? No, wait. Forget it. Tell me a story about your childhood.

Quinn was silent for a while, deep in thought.

\- I’m changing the particulars.

\- Of course.

\- I went… (He hesitated.) …ice skating on the lake one day. With my… cousin. I was nine. And…

He stopped talking. “Gee, riveting”, thought Carrie, but there was something in his voice, and she decided to hold her tongue.

\- That’s the story, said Quinn, finally. That’s it.

That was not “it”, it was so clear that that was not “it” at all, but Carrie didn’t comment. She just draw a new cross.

\- Ok, so, how exactly does this “cross” thing works? Quinn asked, after a few seconds. I mean, can I play for more? For more than a kiss? What if, for instance, I get five of them, does it get me… to the next level?

\- Oh, you wish.

\- Yeah, I really do.

\- Well, no, she said laughingly, the idea is that if you’re a good kisser, the kisses will entice me… entice us both… to go to the next level.

After that, they just stared at each other. Then Quinn stood up again, he drew his chair, again, sat down close to her, again, and Carrie held her breath (again), not knowing what to expect. Then Quinn reached into his pocket, got a lighter out, took the piece of paper from her hand, and burned it.

\- I don’t want you to have to kiss me by obligation, Carrie. I want you to kiss me because you want to.

She couldn’t find her voice for a while. Then she said, her tone a little uneven:

\- God you’re good. (Then, after a pause.) What is it? Method number four, the grand gesture?

\- Yeah, he said, and then he kissed her.

 


	2. Two (One-Night Stands)

The kiss was long, and tender, and passionate, and when it was over, Carrie could not breathe for a few seconds.

\- Want to get out of here? she whispered.

\- Fuck yeah.

Quinn paid the bill – she hoped it was not too expensive, they hadn’t even gotten their entrées, then he took her hand and they walked briskly back, through the hotel courtyard, across the road and through the “secret” embassy tunnel. 

\- My room? she said, and he just nodded.

It was Thursday night. They fell asleep in her bed afterwards, and then at 6 am the next morning Quinn was gone, after a kiss, but without a word.

**

Friday was busy at work and Carrie had trouble concentrating.

Their night together had not been what she thought it would be. It was supposed to be a one night stand, “just a fuck”, wasn’t it exactly what he said? Or maybe she said it – she couldn’t remember. Anyway… That night, whatever it was, was not “just a fuck”. It had been just like their first kiss: passionate. Tender. And… silent. 

Weirdly silent. Oh, words had been uttered. But only, like, useful ones, like: “Lower, Quinn, please. A little lower. Yes.” Or: “Do you want a glass of water?” And there were… well, sounds, obviously. Of appreciation. But there had been no conversation, no discussion of what they were doing, no embarrassed jokes, not even a “See you later.” 

Just the kiss, and then Quinn was gone.

Carrie didn’t feel bad, though. Yes, the events of the preceding night were strange, but she was in a good mood, and she interacted pleasantly with everybody. Even with Quinn. He was distant, but politely so, he didn’t look at her directly but he was agreeable enough when they were forced to work together, and Carrie imagined that everybody else was relieved by the absence of the screaming matches and seething anger that had characterized their last week of teamwork. 

Friday came to an end, and then came Saturday, and Sunday morning, and nothing happened.

They were working on weekends, of course. They had leads on Hakkani. And around 3 pm Sunday afternoon, (it was a gray day, kind of depressing), Quinn just happened to move toward the work station where Carrie had spent the last two hours, at a moment when they just happened to be alone.

\- Hey.

\- Hey, Carrie said, pretending to be very, very focused on whatever gibberish was on the monitor.

\- There is a little restaurant I know on Pur Village. Great daal makhani. Want to try it on Tuesday?

\- Is this another “date”? she asked, still staring at the data.

\- Yes.

And Carrie never, ever learned the truth. How he felt at that moment, like he was going all in, laying it all on the table, taking that huge risk. When she could just say “no”. When she could just say “nah, it was fun, but no” without even turning her head, or getting her eyes off the fucking monitor.

\- Fine, she said. Ok. 

\- Good. See you at 8, on Tuesday, then. I’ll text you the address. 

**

The second date was much more relaxed that the first. They ate the whole meal, which was delicious, talking and laughing, with Quinn regularly going back to his James Bond routine – Carrie was playing along now, even impersonating old school James Bond girls, from Ursula Andress to Carole Bouquet.

\- So what was the content of the Casanova Course? she asked, while they were sharing dessert. I mean, was there… a romancing class? A sexy small talk, er, syllabus? “Goals, Objective and Strategy of Sexual Preliminaries”?

\- Absolutely. 

\- How did you practice?

\- We had an arrangement with the girls of a nearby modeling school. 

\- Government work. So hard.

\- Yep. We were.

\- Tsk tsk. See, James Bond would never make that kind of joke, commented Carrie, eating the last piece of cake. But really, you’re not the James Bond type. He is… optimistic. You’re darker. Like, Bruce Wayne or something.

\- But is Bruce Wayne a heartbreaker like I am? Seducing chaste and beautiful CIA agents? 

\- Not CIA agents, but there’s Vicky Vale, and Cat Woman, and… What was the last Batman you saw? 

Quinn frowned.

\- I don’t think I saw any of them.

\- God you have no life.

\- Look who’s talking. 

\- A few of those movies are really good, you know. We should…

And she just stopped, stopped right there, and clammed up. Quinn didn’t raise his eyes, didn’t react – he knew what was going on – proposing to watch a movie together, on DVD or whatever… That was bordering on a completely different territory, it was a kind of intimacy (that word again) that they didn’t share at all, and he sensed that he was losing her, that she was already running for the hills, their fucking second date, and she had already scared herself, she was already slipping away. 

The awkward silence seemed to go on forever, both avoiding each other gaze, both pretending that nothing was wrong, till Carrie just said:

\- Do they serve mint tea here?

\- With the right bribe, we can get whisky.

\- Oh. Yes. Please. Bribe away.

Alcohol – alcohol was clearly the way to go. It took them a few minutes to get the bottle, and then they drank in silence, a first shot, a second one, a third one, and then Quinn got up, and sat down on the cushions near her, and started to kiss her, but the mood was gone, Carrie was wary, not completely responsive, (all this pretense, all for nothing), and he had to know – he had to know now, if everything was lost, so he stopped kissing her, and asked, his voice a little hoarse:

\- Do you want to come back to the Italian place next Thursday? Cause we didn’t eat last time, and it’s really good.

She wasn’t looking at him – she had her forehead on his shoulder – and here it was again, all or nothing. 

\- So what you want from me are numerous one-night stands, she breathed. You want to get numerously into my pants.

\- This sentence makes no sense. And James Bond never reveals his intentions.

\- Ah. I see we’re back on Bond.

It seems safer, he thought, but he didn’t say it aloud, if it was up to him they would never ever mention Batman again, an embargo on Bruce Wayne, forever. His heart was beating so fast – he began to kiss her again, and thank God, the mood was back.

In force.

**

That’s how it started, every Tuesday and Thursday. Still no talking, or no talking about what was important, just having a good time at dinner, flirting and gossiping, then going to Carrie’s bedroom, and, well. The nights. Silent nights, mostly. Because he didn’t trust his words in those circumstances. But of course actions did speak louder than (no) words. And he didn’t want her to know… so he should tone it down, but he couldn’t. 

And anyway – she knew, already, right? How couldn’t she? (Fucking Max.)

But maybe she didn’t, after all, she had been bloody oblivious for so long. Maybe she still believed in the “Numerous One-Night Stands” smoke screen. But then again, those nights. How could she not know? 

But maybe she didn’t. 

In the office, the rumors had stopped circulating, because when they turn into facts, you can’t call them rumors anymore. Everybody knew they were sleeping together – all those restaurants. And maybe someone has seen them in the tunnel, holding hands and walking fast. Anyway. Facts are less interesting than speculation, so really, people just soon lost interest. Except a few morons who kept asking him to ask Carrie for favors, because “you two are so close”, they said, with a little smile – Quinn always, always refused. And pretended not to understand the allusion or the smile.

The office atmosphere changed. Carrie was happier, more relaxed, hell, he was happier, and of course there were jokes, the “She just needed to get laid” kind of jokes. Never when Quinn was in the room, though. Except once. After a meeting, Carrie had smiled, or something, and left, and that asshole Fred had said “See? She can be normal. She just needed a good fuck” and then he realized Quinn was just in front of him.

There was a heavy silence, while Quinn just looked at the guy, for a long, long time, just stared at him. Then he said:

\- Wanna step outside for a moment, Fred?

Fred had stammered something, he didn’t mean it he was just saying he didn’t really whatever, Quinn let him humiliate himself in front of everybody for a couple of minutes, and then just said:

\- Good.

After that, nobody ever touched the topic again.

Quinn didn’t kill Fred, because first, murdering fellow CIA agents was generally frowned upon, but also because he thought that in a way, the guy was right. Carrie really needed that. Quinn really needed that too, but not “a good fuck”, sex was not really important in the equation (although it was pretty fucking great). It was not that he or Carrie needed to get laid, it was that Carrie, like he did, needed someone close. Someone to trust, to rely on. Someone to touch. Someone to talk to. Carrie needed affection, intimacy (hey, look! That fucking word), someone who listened, someone who cared. 

Of course it was going to end, soon she would be coming to her senses, or to be accurate her fears would get the best of her, and she would ditch him – it was going to happen – but, till then.

It was early in the game, by the way, at their tenth or eleventh “date”, that Carrie had the epiphany about the Embassy tunnel. She and Quinn were coming back from a bar, it was a Thursday night; they were in a pretty good mood. And then she stopped, right there, in the middle of the “secret” tunnel.

\- This is dangerous, she said. 

\- What?

\- This. This tunnel’s very existence.

Quinn frowned.

\- It’s useful. We can’t conduct operations with the ISI agents watching our every move at the front door.

\- Yes, but – she was thinking, thinking hard, he could almost hear her brain ticking. Quinn, we still don’t know who switched my meds.

\- Sure, but…

\- If we have a breach, what did the traitor say? To whom? Who knows about this place now?

By “this place”, she meant this whole, gaping, unprotected road into the heart of the Embassy, and Quinn suddenly felt cold – and they were very alone, both of them, far from back up, and he had just the one gun to protect her – he took his phone, and began to give orders, fast, and one hour later twenty marines were closing the fucking thing.

There was an uproar – almost a riot. The tunnel was so practical, it simplified everything; without it agents were now losing precious minutes, sometimes hours, at the main entrance with all the precautions and searches. After a while, Carrie pretended to cave and had the tunnel reopened – under the constant surveillance of fifteen heavy armed Marines. Of course, in the meantime, they had managed to create another secret exit, because Quinn was right, they had to have a way to leave the embassy undetected.

So now, there was the “secret” tunnel, which a lot of people knew about, and which was heavily protected, and then there was the real secret tunnel (more of a secret passage, really), whose existence was only known by seven people – a short list that Quinn and Carrie had established. Even madam ambassador was not on it. 

After this, nothing happened for a while. 

Just Tuesdays and Thursdays, at night.  


It couldn’t last, but, till then.


	3. Numerous (One-Night Stands)

Then came Aasar Khan.

Since Carrie had spent the night at the guy’s place, sobbing in his arms because someone had switched her meds, a sort of rapport had been established. Khan and Carrie regularly met in secret, trading services and information, nothing serious, just little professional courtesies. (Quinn was generally up on a nearby roof, watching them through the lens of his rifle). And Khan and Carrie even flirted. It didn’t bother Quinn at first, he knew Carrie’s ways, she just did her thing, and Khan did it too, it was just the name of the game. (Another game.)

Except that one day, Khan decided to change the nature of the fucking game and sleep with Carrie. For professional reasons, surely, manipulating the enemy, but also, maybe Khan just kind of liked her, and Quinn could not blame him, really, no, no blaming, just hating his guts. Suddenly the meets were not in dark alleys anymore, but in little private offices of nice hotels, or even in luxurious rooms of private palaces owned by Khan’s family. Carrie didn’t notice the change at first, she kept bringing Quinn, who was generally standing near the door, his back against the wall, watching them drinking tea down on the cushions, watching Khan smiling at her and touching her arm and whispering and leaning too close. 

Of course then Carrie did notice Khan’s change of behavior. She was not oblivious when it came to (other) men. Quinn could pinpoint the exact moment when she understood – and the exact moment, a few heartbeats later, when she decided to answer in kind – touching Khan’s arm, smiling back, leaning close. 

Nothing happened that day, but it was not difficult to divine what Carrie was thinking – getting back to the embassy, through the busy streets, toward the secret passage, while Quinn was walking three steps behind her, ready for anything (it was a dangerous neighborhood). Sleeping with Khan was a good idea. A great professional opportunity. She could learn a lot of things, of course he would try to play her but then she would play him back, such a priceless contact in the Pakistani government, and also, Quinn could see it, had always suspected it – Carrie thought Khan was kind of hot. 

It would not be like that poor kid, the one Haqqani murdered. It would be a relationship between equals, a useful and a pleasurable one for both parties.

So Quinn said nothing. What could he say? He was powerless.

\- I think I will take another of those Cosmopolitans I had last time, Carrie said, at the bar of the Marriott, on Thursday night. 

They sat in a little secluded corner, with beautiful leather armchairs and couches, nursing their second round of Mojitos. She hadn't slept with Khan yet, but it was just there, looming on the horizon. 

\- You should really make up your fucking mind about this damn cocktail, commented Quinn, looking everywhere but at her. I thought you didn’t like it. You said it was overrated. Too small. And too expensive.

\- Yeah but… (Carrie shot him a huge smile, she was wearing a sexy little black dress, more sophisticated than usual.) It’s symbolic! It’s the name. I drink a Cosmopolitan, I feel… “cosmopolite”, in French, you know?

\- No I don’t.

\- You’re in a foul mood tonight, James.

Carrie herself was in a great mood, feeling glamorous, in control; let’s face it, being a CIA agent sucked, most of the time. Isolation, death, paranoia (and fucking red tape, and endless administrative tasks). So you had to appreciate when life was good, and between this very, very, VERY enjoyable affair with Quinn, the hunt on Haqqani (doing pretty well), and this dangerous liaison type of relationship with Khan, she felt things were really going her way for once.

\- You know what, Quinn, she said, leaning over. I’m the one who feels like James Bond tonight.

\- Yeah?

\- Well, I mean, it’s exciting, right? This Khan’s thing. Seducing a sexy enemy agent… A rich and powerful man with political influence… That’s a very 007 thing to do.

\- Maybe. But you’re station chief. Not an English agent in the field.

\- Way to be technical! (She stood up, and sat again seductively on the leather couch, only a few inches from Quinn, then put her hand on her heart in a very dramatic, “Greta Garbo” kind of way.) Aasar Khan. It’s so hard, you know, me having to sleep with such a handsome man. I'm only doing this for the homeland.

\- The homeland doesn’t care.

But Carrie wasn’t even listening, she was having too much fun.

\- ... Having sex in a comfy bed somewhere in one of those luxurious palaces – such a sacrifice… But I’d do anything for my country… 

She sat on Quinn’s knees, very femme fatale, and she began to kiss him on the neck, whispering…

\- I think I will start by biting him here, very slowly, and…

\- GET THE FUCK OFF ME!

And now they were both standing, furious, she was looking shocked and offended, and fuck, how fucking tone deaf was she? How moronic, how oblivious, how fucking stupid was she?

\- What in the fucking hell is wrong with you tonight?! she yelled, then she looked around her, and lowered her voice, but the anger was still seething. You don’t get to speak to me like that.

\- No, he said, in the same tone. I just get to see you prostitute yourself one more time. First Brody, and then this kid, and now…

\- Brody was not… Don’t you dare mention Brody. And you know what, Quinn? Fuck you. Fuck. You. It’s my job. 

\- No it fucking isn’t. Read your contract. You have one, somewhere, right? Show me the clause where the CIA tells you you get to spread your fucking legs each time you meet a guy with interesting information!

\- You’re a fucking assassin, Quinn, she seethed. You are murdering people for a living.

\- Well at least I don’t…

He stopped there, he had no idea where he was going with this sentence, but it didn’t matter because she was not listening anyway.

\- So what, she whispered, with rage in her voice, murder is fine but sex is wrong? A woman having sex for fun, with a consenting adult, it is so scandalous, but you can go and put bullets in people’s heads and that’s just dandy? It’s, what, a misogynistic thing?

\- Fuck you, Carrie.

\- Wow, what a great point! I’m all convinced now! Stop the presses, I had my epiphany, what I’m doing is wrong!

\- Fuck you.

\- So you did go to Harvard, after all. I forgot what a great conversationalist you were. 

\- Fuck you. And it is not a misogynistic thing.

\- So what? What is it, Quinn?

He was silent now, just staring at her, his eyes very dark. Looking at her intensely, without a word, exactly like in that office that day, before he asked her for their first “date”. 

Then, he sat down again.

On the couch. In a very relaxed, smug way. He took his cocktail back.

\- It’s a jealousy thing, he said.

\- What?

\- It's a James Bond thing. We red-blooded alpha males don’t like to share our women. We get to sleep around, you don’t.

\- I… see.

She was at a loss for words for a moment.

\- So it is a misogynistic thing, she finally said.

\- Yeah, said Quinn, with his most sexy smile. But a glamorous one. The Bond franchise made billions with it.

She sat down on the couch. Hesitated. 

Then, at his huge relief, she decided to follow his lead and go back to the game. She crossed her legs, and just like that, Greta Garbo was back.

\- But maybe we Mata Haris of the world don’t agree with your old fashioned view of the system. Maybe we like to do our own thing. 

\- Well, said Quinn, after a sip of his cocktail, there is the patriotic aspect to consider too.

\- Yes?

\- Sleeping with a foreigner? You should shop American, madam. Local.

\- But… but when you’re a tourist, isn’t it good to taste indigenous products?

\- They generally disappoint.

\- Really?

He leaned over, with an almost feral smile.

\- I think we can convince you to stay local, madam.

Silence. Carrie had a little embarassed laugh.

\- Well, that sounds like an interesting program.

He offered his hand.

\- Then… shall we?

\- Shall we what?

\- Move on to the convincing part of the evening?

\- Certainly, she said, her composure back. But really, Quinn, the Khan thing is important, she added seriously, while they were walking towards the exit. Even with all your remarkable talents, I really don’t think you can…

\- We’ll see.

 

**

 

The next dates were horrible. 

Oh they were great for Carrie, who obviously was having a lot of fun with this particular phase of their roleplaying game, but they were horrible for him. He was playing the sexy alpha-male with poise, all the while hiding his inner misery. He was losing, and everything was slipping away.

And one day, Carrie saw through him.

What she saw, exactly, was difficult to say. Because Quinn could have sworn that he hadn’t changed his attitude in any way. That he kept the show going, that the atmosphere of their dates wasn’t different, that she couldn’t possibly feel his growing desperation.

But she clearly felt something, because suddenly she was looking at him in odd ways, studying him, and Quinn could see the gears turning in her brain, like that day in the tunnel.

So he retreated. Became colder. Not because he wanted to, but to put a halt to her scrutiny. Their professional relationship became strained again – not like before, not like the weeks just after Max said (fucking Max)… but yeah, tension. They kept the dates going, though. 

Weeks passed. And suddenly, without notice, Carrie completely altered the nature of her relationship with Khan.

The fucker had invited her for the afternoon in the gardens of one of his uncles beautiful town house. Those were secluded, lush gardens, the house would be empty, and it was clear (in Quinn’s mind anyway) what Khan expected to happen that day. Except at the last moment, Carrie changed the location of the meet, to a sinister CIA safe house somewhere near the embassy, a little grey room with nothing more than two uncomfortable chairs and a table. And she brought Quinn, who stood near the door, his back against the wall, watching as Carrie talked to Khan in a distant, polite way, very professionally, very coldly, with a glint of steel in her smile.

Khan was far from stupid. He noticed the difference immediately and took it in stride, correcting his behavior accordingly, and if he felt disappointed it didn’t show. The meeting was a productive one, Carrie was pushy, efficient, she drove a hard bargain, they made two interesting deals and even agreed on a discreet prisoners’ exchange.

After, Khan stood up, politely shook hands with Carrie, and headed toward the door – when he walked past he looked a little too long at Quinn, and – of course. ISI had spies everywhere and they had to know, too. So Quinn looked back, an imperceptible smile on his lips – he raised his eyebrows just a little – the interaction was fast but unmissable – and then Khan was gone.

 

**

 

Carrie and Quinn walked back to the embassy in silence. 

\- Yeah, you were right, I thought it was better to stay local, she said, not looking at him, before they entered the secret passage.

He just nodded - he couldn't talk. They spent the rest of the day working with the team, there was a lot to do with the prisoners’ exchange, and with some info Khan has given Carrie, and slowly Quinn’s happiness was replaced by raw emotion. 

She had done it for him. Even with his pessimistic outlook on life and love, he had to know she had done it for him. The evening slowly passed away, and when Carrie asked him a question, without looking (she was the one avoiding his gaze today) he had trouble answering. It took him a few moments to find his words. He just wanted to be with her, to hold her, to touch her – but it was Friday.

Friday was not part of the game. 

8 pm, 9 pm, and they were still working. At 10 they called it a night. Quinn went back to his room. I should just go there, he thought, just go to her apartment, knock on her door, Friday or not fucking Friday, but he didn’t dare. 11 pm, he had taken a shower, he had even applied some after shave (not perfume, after shave, totally different) in case he just decided to do it, go to her apartment, and he couldn’t sleep, he just paced up and down the room – I should just go there, knock on her door.

Someone knocked on his door.

She was there when he opened, looking a little self-conscious in black yoga pants and a grey tee-shirt, and he took her in his arms – he hold her tight, they were both silent, and then they were kissing without a word, he was kind of trembling, or maybe they both were, and he closed the door behind them, and, well.

On a Friday.


	4. On a Monday

After that, intimacy was established. (Yep, intimacy, definitely the key word of this story). With its own unspoken rules.

The rules were:

\- Tuesdays and Thursdays nights only (that Friday escapade was a one time thing).

\- They didn’t talk about what they were doing, ever, during the days. Didn’t touch, didn’t kiss, didn’t allude to anything. (One exception: establishing the next meet).

\- They still went to restaurants, but sometimes Carrie just said “My place?” and they’d spent the evening in her apartment, talking shop and eating toast with peanut butter or soup or anything that could be microwaved. They didn’t kiss or touch while they “cooked”, they just interacted in a fun, relaxed sort of way, and after dinner he kissed her or she kissed him and that was the signal.

\- The signal for… well. And still, no talking.

\- He always spent the night after. 

\- At 6 am he would be gone.

So, basically, same rules, but things felt really different now. First, the arrangement was set in stone. No uncertainty, no doubt. They met twice a week, like clockwork. And the vibe at work had radically changed. They interacted smoothly, with trust and confidence, sometimes without needing to look at each other – in fact, there were days where he was actively avoiding looking at her, because he thought “things” would become too obvious. 

Because she had to know, now, right? After everything. But maybe she didn’t. No, she had to. 

But maybe she didn’t. 

Anyway, they still bickered, they still disagreed, and it could get pretty heated, but there was no consequences. Five minutes after, the disagreement was forgotten, and they just followed whatever decision had been made. 

And there were the little things. For instance, now, Quinn always sat beside her at lunch, they ate in groups, there was a lot to discuss and a lot of people wanted Carrie’s attention, but Quinn was always sitting beside her or across the table from her. He held the door. When he made coffee, he brought two mugs. In fact there was an incident, with coffee, one night. They were working late, the three of them: John Redmond, Carrie and Quinn. Quinn was the only one to have coffee, so of course Carrie, who was concentrating on her file, took his mug without asking, drank a sip of his coffee and pushed the mug back to him. Without thinking, he took a sip and pushed the mug back to her. She took a sip, pushed it back to him. It went on for a while, till Quinn realized that Redmond was watching them, a strange look on his face. Quinn felt a little exposed, and drank the rest of the coffee in one gulp – of course Carrie protested loudly – while Redmond was busy looking at his documents and trying not to look too amused.

A pretty good life.

It couldn’t last, but, till then.

**

\- So what happened at the lake? Carrie whispered, one night.

This was the first transgression of the rules. They were in bed, it was very late, he thought she was already sleeping.

\- What lake?

\- The story you began to tell me. “I went ice skating on the lake one day. With my cousin. I was nine.” Remember?

\- Yes, he said, slowly.

\- So? What happened?

He hesitated, a long time, then just kissed her on the forehead. 

\- You know, I don’t have to give you any answers. I have all the kisses for free now. 

It was her turn to hesitate, but she wisely chose not to keep pushing.

**

The second transgression happened during the day. 

They were closing on Haqqani. It had been weeks now, they were making arrests, killing his guys. They had been working some assets, they had information from Khan, who was playing a complex and dangerous game inside the Pakistani government. They had just finished a difficult operation to discredit Tasmeen Qureshi, who Khan said was working actively against American interests inside the ISI. They also got rid of one of Khan’s professional rivals the same way – Khan’s idea, and guess who inherited the functions and the title.

\- The ambitious little fucker, said Quinn.

It was mid-afternoon, not a Tuesday, not a Thursday, and they were watching on one of the monitors while Khan was making a political speech in front of an official building.

\- Yep, said Carrie, with genuine admiration in her voice. He might end up president one day.

\- Like the Pakistanis don’t have enough problems.

Carrie laughed and looked at Quinn.

\- Yeah, you really love the guy, don’t you?

They were alone in the room, but Quinn was surprised – this was a clear deviation from the norm, mentioning – alluding – to “things”. Things that had passed between them, like his… jealousy, and well, alluding to jealousy meant alluding to their arrangement, and they had never done that during the day before, and the way Carrie just did it – laughingly, naturally… He smiled back.

\- Khan’s my favorite person in the whole world. 

\- Well, she said, pushing her hair behind her ear in a kind of flirty way – he is a handsome man.

\- Oh yeah?

She was standing near the coffee machine, very alluring in her nice grey pantsuit, with a white shirt - Quinn moved nearer. 

\- And he is rich, Carrie continued, with a provocative smile, and he has been to the best schools…

Quinn was close now – he had to stop, someone could see, and he said:

\- Money and education are important. But we, the local guys… we have our own fields of expertise.

\- Like what?

Quinn just raised an eyebrow – and it was enough, and they both had the same idea at the same time, and they looked around them, but… no. This entire office was made of glass, it seemed, and there were people everywhere in the corridors, and cameras…

Yeah. No. 

So they just went back to work, both with huge smiles on their face.

**

Then things accelerated. 

While they were listening to another group of Haqqani affiliates, they got info that seemed to indicate that there had been, indeed, a plan to attack the embassy through the tunnel a few weeks ago. The tunnel Carrie had decided to close. At least it was how Carrie chose to interpret the information, because a lot of people thought she was just being paranoid. And that’s when Senator Andrew Lockhart in person came to visit. 

He wanted to be there for Haqqani’s capture or discreet execution, and Lockhart and Carrie butted heads at once. The operation against Tasmeen had yielded some more data, and now Carrie was sure that the tunnel attack scheme she had been suspecting had been real, and that another attack was underway. An attack against the embassy. “Let’s say you’re Haqqani”, she explained to Lockhart. “You want to kill a bunch of American diplomats. You want the Taliban flag to fly above the embassy. You want to be a star, you want the whole world to look at you. Are you going to stop because your first fucking attempt didn’t fucking work?” 

But Lockhart was not convinced. He didn't believe Carrie or the tunnel thing, and he also thought that Haqqani’s network has been weakened enough, and that the guy couldn’t do anything. There were some long and tense meetings, and finally Carrie got some more security anyway, in direct contradiction with Lockhart orders. 

But not as much as she wanted to, and the next day the attack came.

It was, honestly, a half assed thing. When they got all the pieces of the story together, weeks later, they realized that both Carrie and Lockhart had been right. There was an attack brewing, but Haqqani’s group was indeed too weak to succeed. 

And Haqqani knew it. He just wanted to die. It was a sort of last stand, a symbolic, desperate gesture. 

The assailants didn’t know about the last minute changes in security – so basically, it was a blood bath, on their side. A damn slaughter. But there was a tense moment – ok, a very tense moment, ok, an awful, dangerous, heartwrenching moment. Haqqani and three of the survivors had succeeded to get near the vault, where madam ambassador and most of the diplomats were in the process of hiding. But they were not in yet, and one of the terrorists took Lockhart hostage – people were screaming, running, the marines were shooting, the hostage situation didn’t last for more than a few seconds, really, because Quinn and two of the soldiers killed the terrorist almost instantly, in the panic, nobody could really see anything, but Haqqani saw it anyway - that it was over. That he had lost, so he took out his knife, grabbed Carrie, and it was not an hostage situation this time, it was just murder, a last sacrifice to the gods of destruction, the knife was already on her throat and Quinn saw it from the other side of the room, he didn’t think, didn’t interrupt his movement, he just turned and shot Haqqani, one bullet in the head, right between the eyes, just a few inches above Carrie’s face.

And then it was over. The enemies were all dead. Soldiers running, frantic phone calls, Lockhart and Carrie shouting to restore order, medics arriving on the scene and Quinn – Quinn was seeing blood. He was seeing red. Not a metaphor, he was not feeling angry, he had literally a red veil before his eyes, his vision was impaired, ambulances were arriving in the courtyard, but he just left – he opened the first door on the right, climbed up some stairs, sat down on a step, and waited for the shakes to disappear, and to his vision to get back to normal.

It took almost an hour. When he got back down they had been looking for him. Carrie was in one of the conference rooms with Lockhart, they were talking to somebody through a secure line – the president, said John Redmond – when Carrie saw Quinn through the glass doors, she just froze, they looked at each other and then her attention was back on the call. 

**

Lockhart had disappeared somewhere. All the wounded were in the hospital, all the bad guys were in the morgue. There was one casualty on the American side – one of the youngest marines, a young Afro-American guy, Quinn didn’t even know his name. Carrie finally went to get some sleep. It had been thirty-nine hours since the attack, and she had not slept – they had not slept for forty-eight hours or so. Quinn just followed her in her apartment, no questions asked, it was a Sunday (or was it?), he had lost all notion of time, but he didn’t think they were going to be picky with the days right now. In the room, she hugged him, just repeating thank you thank you thank you, then the next thing he knew it was five hours later and there was a knock on the door, it was Monday, 3 am, he was in bed with Carrie sleeping in his arms, no idea how they got there.

Another knock. Carrie jumped out of bed. She shot a glance at Quinn before getting to the door.

\- Yes?

\- Lockhart.

\- Just a minute, she said, putting on a robe.

Quinn was already up.

\- Do you want me to go? Or hide?

Carrie shrugged.

\- No. Stay.

She opened the door, and Senator Lockhart entered the room. He spotted Quinn, but he didn’t say a word, just sat down at the table and looked at Carrie.

\- Do you have something strong in that kitchen of yours, Ms Mathison? Alcohol, I mean.

\- Sure, said Carrie, and she took out a bottle of whisky and three glasses.

Quinn hesitated, didn’t join them, just caught the glass that Carrie handed him (she had been generous with the whisky) before taking a few steps back. Lockhart looked at him, then at Carrie.

\- Have you two disclosed your relationship to HR?

There was a silence. Then Quinn said:

\- Sure. It’s, er, processing. 

\- Right. (Lockhart drank the whisky, taking his time. Then he put the glass back on the table.) Ms Mathison, I know, and you know, that this mess is my fault. 

\- Sir, it was a hard call to…

\- No it was not, not really. And now an American soldier is dead and we have… chaos on our hands. 

There was a pause. Carrie said slowly:

\- It could have been so much worse.

\- Yes, it could have. We both know that. But nobody will see it that way. Terrorists inside the embassy. Blood everywhere. I talked to the president again. He wants us to end diplomatic relations with Pakistan.

\- What? That’s bullshit! (Lockhart looked at her.) I mean… that’s a bad idea, sir. It would only make things worse, we have assets here, an established network, people who count on our support, and…

\- I agree.

Carrie looked at Lockhart.

\- You have a plan.

\- Yes. But before I explain it to you… Please know that you can always refuse. And just listen before you... react, ok?

\- Ok.

\- I know you’ve asked to be transferred back to DC.

Carrie froze briefly – then she answered, not looking at Quinn, not even glancing in his direction.

\- Er, yeah. Yes. I… My father is dead. And I’m beginning to get tired of… everything, here. I want to come back, lead a more normal life. Spend time with my daughter.

\- I understand. Well, one way to convince the president to smooth things over with the Pakistanis is to offer him a scapegoat. This scapegoat could be you. The CIA head of station saying she had messed up and resigning – it could calm things for a while. But you’d actually get a raise, and a comfy post as a political analyst – something interesting. In Langley. Or in Washington. We’d get in in writing, he added.

Carrie didn’t say anything, didn’t fly off the handle, she was just listening, considering. 

\- Again, said Lockhart, this is not me sacrificing you. It would be your choice. If you don’t want to do it that way, we won’t.

\- Ok. Thank you, senator. I understand. (She glanced at Quinn.) Can I… think about this?

\- I will need an answer first thing in the morning.

\- Of course. 

**

Lockhart was gone. Quinn put back his glass on the table. He had not touched it.

“I am tired of everything here.” 

Well then.

Carrie still didn’t look at him. She stood up, slowly, crossed the room and sat on the bed. Quinn did the same thing, staying a little apart from her. 

\- I’m sorry I didn’t mention this to you before, she said.

\- Sure. No. I get it. No problem. It’s good. Good that you want to have a normal life, good that you want to get your daughter back.

\- With my father gone, I… Maggie can’t raise Frannie on her own. That’s my job, and anyway, I… I changed. I want another kind of life, I think. 

\- Yes. You’re making the right decision. I’ll get a transfer to Istambul.

\- What? No. Wait. Quinn…

He waited. Another silence, he didn’t dare break it, and it figured that it was Carrie who jumped first. She had always been braver.

\- No, Quinn, actually... I wanted to ask you to come back with me. To DC. We could go back together, and continue this… thing. This thing we have. Together, in DC. Do you… Do you want to? 

\- Ok.

\- Ok?

\- Yes. (He took his hand.) Yes. I do want to. Yes.

There was a silence, a long one, and Carrie whispered:

\- Ok. Good. Good.

Another silence. He held her hand tighter.

\- You know Max was right… right? You know that I am in love with you?

\- Yeah, I kind of figured.

Another silence, she was so tired, she was still under shock, and now this, and she began to laugh nervously. 

\- Er, well, should we talk now? About our… “relationship”?

\- Talk how? Quinn asked.

\- Well, normal people, they talk, you know. Like… Do we have rules? 

\- Rules?

\- Do we… I don’t know, for instance, are we exclusive? 

\- Fuck yeah, he said, and then he kissed her.

On a Monday. 

 

(The end.)

Update: the end, yes, but... Just click on "Next Chapter".


	5. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Alternate title: The One Where They All Make Bad Decisions)
> 
> This is another fic, which takes place in a parallel universe very close to "Every Tuesday and Thursday in Islamabad". It's the same story - except the details and the atmosphere change drastically - the same things happen, but another way.
> 
> The truth is, I always thought that "Every Tuesday and Thursday in Islamabad" was a little... vanilla. So I've been wanting for a while to add rum and spices and red pepper (and a good dose of darkness) to that vanilla. It's an experiment (you'll tell me, right?).
> 
> I'm also integrating the new canon from Season Five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the modus operandi:
> 
> \- If you've not read "Every Tuesday and Thursday in Islamabad", just read this story normally.
> 
> \- If you've already read it, well, it starts exactly the same way, I don't want to bore you, so you can just skip to this line (THINGS CHANGE HERE) and start reading there.
> 
> Brief summary of what happened before to refresh your memory (don't read this if you are reading the whole story, only if you decide to skip to the (THINGS CHANGE HERE) line).  
> We're in Season Four, in Islamabad, in the Embassy. Saul has not been kidnapped and nobody knows the name of the traitor who switched Carrie's meds.  
> Max has been telling people that Quinn was in love with Carrie. Carrie hears it, so a completely panicked Quinn does some damage control by telling Carrie he is not in love with her, that he just wants to fuck her - then he invites her on a date to officially seduce her. The date goes very well, they're having fun, Quinn is impersonating James Bond (I know, it's a weird story) and here we are, the (THINGS CHANGE HERE) line is in the middle of the date, this is where things begin to deviate from the other narrative.

It all began because of Max.

Fucking Max. He wanted to impress Fara with gossip, so he told her that Quinn was in love with Carrie – Virgil was sure of it, Max said. And Fara talked, or somebody else talked, and suddenly it was everywhere in the embassy, just office rumors.

Carrie would have dismissed them, except for Quinn’s reaction. He had turned very pale when he heard, and from that day his behavior completely changed. He became… obnoxious. Well, more obnoxious. More – everything, actually, more aggressive, more silent. And when he wasn’t silent, he yelled at her – numerous times – in front of everybody. Carrie yelled back at him, of course, and there was bickering, but not their habitual bickering. It felt like Quinn hated her, like he truly hated her, and she couldn’t stand it.

So on Monday morning she said:

\- Quinn, we have to talk.

He looked around him, for a way out – like a caged animal. Clearly wanting to be everywhere but here. But Carrie didn’t back down.

\- Follow me, please…

The office on the left was empty. She closed the door behind them, while he just looked at her, at a safe distance, arms crossed. The incarnation of hostility.

\- Quinn, we can’t go on like that, she sighed.

\- Like what?

\- Listen… I know Max is wrong. I know you’re not in love with me, ok? You don’t need to act like my personal fucking enemy every hour of every fucking day, just to prove it. You are my friend… And a trusted colleague, a trusted… partner. And now I’m losing you, because… of a stupid thing Max said? Can you stop it, Quinn? Please. Again, I know you’re not in love with me. Just… Just fucking stop it.  
Quinn was silent. Looking at her. Staring, his eyes so dark, almost black.

The silence kept going forever. Carrie hesitated, feeling awkward, on display. Then, he said:

\- Tonight. You and me. Dinner, at that Italian restaurant, at The Marriott.

She stuttered.

\- Wha-at?

\- Dinner. Together. Tonight. So?

It was not the offer that surprised her so much as the tone. The hostility. The… hatred?

\- OK, she said finally. Sure.

\- It’s a date, he added, with the same undercurrent of anger. Not a dinner between colleagues, a date. Ok?

\- Ok.

She was speaking very calmly now, observing him – trying to read him, trying to analyze the situation – and her scrutiny seemed to exasperate him even more, so she asked:

\- So… what? The Marriott? I just meet you there?

\- Yeah. See you at 8.

And that was the end of the conversation.

**

At 8 pm, Carrie was at the restaurant. Dressed for… a date, except she didn’t want to seem like she had dressed for a date, because, how strange was this situation, really. So she just wore a very nice, black pantsuit, and some light make up. When she approached the table, in a little secluded corner, behind two pillars, he was already there – a completely transformed man.  
Serene and smiling, dressed to kill with black trousers and a very, very nice (ironed) white shirt. Granted, the smile was a bit artificial – or, maybe, not exactly artificial, more, like, professional.

\- Shit, look at you, she said.

He stood up, and even draw her chair for her – all this very gallant, very smooth, very…

\- You’re very… “James Bond”, tonight, she added, before sitting down and eyeing him suspiciously. Quinn, the dinner, the… What the fuck are you doing?

He sat down, poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.

\- I’m seducing you.

\- You… I’m sorry?

\- I’m seducing you, he repeated, with one of those James Bond smiles, that were clearly fabricated, but not without sex appeal. See, I am not in love with you…

…and if at that precise moment he was looking at the wine bottle and not at her, Carrie didn’t notice, because she was so flummoxed by the conversation…

\- But all this gossip made me think, he continued. About us. I’m not in love with you, but I do like you.

And now he was looking at her, right into her eyes.

\- And I want to fuck you. So, I am seducing you.

\- Well… I… That’s…, Carrie answered.

She took a sip of wine, trying to assess the situation. She was… astonished, but intrigued. Such a change from the preceding days, when he had been so distant and hurtful. Well. Ok. It was a surprise. And a challenge. And more than that, it was awakening something in her.  
Something warm. Something deep.

\- Ok, I’m definitely curious, she said slowly. (Then she shot him a smile, a real one, and Quinn gave a real one in return.) You know it’s against the rules, though. This kind of fraternizing.

\- I don’t give a fuck.

\- Ok then. All right. Go. On to the seduction thing. I’m listening.

\- Well, first, I ordered a bottle of champagne, for the James Bond vibe.

\- We already have wine.

\- Yep.

\- So your seduction method is basically getting me drunk.

\- Absolutely not. I’ll have you know that we had seduction classes, in Black Ops.

\- You’re kidding.

\- It was called the Casanova Course.

\- I don’t believe it.

\- Dar Adal taught it.

She really laughed at that one, and was recompensed with a huge smile from Quinn, another real one, and the champagne arrived, and while Quinn was talking to the waiter, she realized… that for the first time in weeks, months perhaps, she was kind of relaxing. Yes, there were undercurrents, there always were, with Quinn, and there was even a power play somewhere, but she didn’t care.

Or maybe it just made things more interesting.

\- Ok, so, what is in this mysterious “Casanova Course”, which, by the way, is so clearly an invention of your deluded mind? What is the modus operandi to get into a girl’s pants, Quinn? Please enlighten me.

\- The first method is basic: looking right into the eyes of the lady, and complimenting her.

\- Oh come on. That’s so cheesy.

\- Yep, but it works.

\- No. Not on a woman with a brain, it doesn’t.

\- Let’s see.

He stood up, while Carrie, a little nervous, was following his every movement. Then he drew his chair very close to her. He sat down, took Carrie’s hands into his, stared at her for a few seconds, and whispered:

\- I like it when you smile.

Then he stood up again and got his chair back to where it belonged, leaving Carrie… a little rattled, to be honest.

\- So? he asked, sipping his champagne.

\- Ok, she said, laughing, trying to hide her emotion. (No. If this was a game, she needed to play it honestly.) All right, Quinn. I’ll admit: it worked. Kind of. But you took my hands. Touching is cheating.

\- Touching is not cheating. Touching is an essential part of the process, he added, smiling again, and Carrie thought how frustrating it was that he didn’t seem rattled at all, he seemed pretty smug, in fact, and her competitive streak flared up.

\- Well it’s not enough to earn you a fuck.

\- Classy.

\- You started it.

\- I like it. I always did.

\- My lack of class?

\- Your frankness. Bordering on vulgarity. It’s… endearing.

\- Is it a real compliment, or are you still on method number one?

\- Both. Method number two is to be funny. You have to make the lady laugh.

\- Oh, now you’re kidding. This is so cliché, it’s just…

\- … But I’m not going to try it. I’m not a fun guy.

\- Thank God. And no, you’re… definitely not funny. You’re pretty intense, in fact.

Quinn nodded, then continued, with a strange gleam in his eyes.

\- The third method is creating intimacy.

\- How? Carrie said, genuinely intrigued.

\- Well, there are a number of ways…

His voice trailed off, but the gleam was still there, in fact there was a genuine light in his eyes, something warm, and Carrie felt serious for an instant, like, pretty dead serious, like there was a possibility there, a potential – there was definitely a connection – how long was it since she felt connected to a man? She had to take a sip of champagne, again, to disguise her reaction, because this sudden rush of emotion was not part of the game, and it scared her a little.

\- This is so strange, Quinn, she said, sincerely. Today, yesterday… You were just awful to me. And now…

Peter Quinn didn’t answer, didn’t look at her, and Carrie felt the undercurrents again, and thinking about it, it was really weird, wasn’t it, this sudden turn of events – from downright rage to trying… what?

\- You can’t create intimacy, Quinn, she said. Not you. You’re just not… I don’t know, wired for it.

The light disappeared. 

\- Really? he said, his tone perfectly neutral.

(THINGS CHANGE HERE)

\- And what do you want from me anyway? A one night stand? What?

\- Come on Carrie, you don’t get to know in advance. The surprise is part of the process. You don’t ask what James Bond wants from the pretty Russian spy, do you? Or, more accurately… you know exactly what he wants. And that is what I want too, he said, taking Carrie’s hands in his again, and kissing them, but still with this “professional seducer” attitude, and Carrie was not sure she liked that kind of roleplaying, after all, so she leaned towards him and said:

\- Ok.

\- Ok what?

\- I want to play too.

\- What do you mean?

\- The intimacy thing. I want to play. I’m gonna ask questions. To you. About you.

\- Carrie, I can’t… I’m classified. I mean, a lot of things, about me…. Most of the things are classified.

\- I don’t give a fuck. (She looked at him for a few moments.) You play or you don’t. And I’m going to make you a deal. A kiss for each answer.

It was his turn to be flummoxed. He actually froze – for two good seconds – before saying.

\- Ok.

There was a silence. Carrie’s heart was beating hard.

\- What is your name? Your first name.

\- Peter.

\- But…

\- Sorry Carrie, one question at a time. So, that’s one answer, right? 

\- It is, it is – Carrie said, then she got a notepad out of her bag and made a little mark on it. Ok. Your real name?

\- Quinn.

\- Oh come on.

\- It’s true.

\- But what about – all the missions? The, er (she lowered her voice) the secrecy, the Black-Ops, everything? Do you change your name?

\- It really dep- hey, wait. Is that a third question? 

\- I guess.

\- I don’t think you counted my second answer. On your little notepad. The answer to "What's your real name?". There should be a second mark.

\- Well, it doesn't count. I mean, “Quinn”? That doesn't give me any new information.

\- Let’s be clear on the rules, Ms Mathison. I thought it was one kiss “for each answer”, not “for each answer I really like”.

\- Fine, Mr Quinn, she said, laughing (and making another mark). Look who’s suddenly giving a fuck about the rules again.

\- Motivation is everything. So… You were asking a third question, I believe? Do you want me to answer it officially?

\- Please do.

\- Sometimes we do change our names for the mission – if there’s undercover work. When it’s just – action, we generally don’t. Because nobody has the opportunity to ask us anything anyway. If we go abroad, though, we do take different identities.

It was a little scary, thinking what Quinn had done – still did. That other life, his other life, which she knew nothing about. “Action” was a euphemism for killing, obviously – which she knew – of course she knew – but in an abstract way, it was just strange – right now, in this luxurious restaurant, picturing it, picturing him killing people.

He was observing her, silently – his eyes wary – sometimes, she almost believed he could read her thoughts. She made a third mark – and suddenly he stood up.

\- We should not let those marks accumulate. 

And for the second time, he drew his chair near her, and sat down. Carrie’s breath caught. Which was – stupid, and unexpected – it was just a game, but she felt nervous – for a minute she vaguely hoped he would play the gentleman, make a grand gesture – let her out of her obligation – but he didn’t – and she could feel the decision, the will – he was there to collect a debt, and he was going to get his money’s worth. There was a brief silence, while they just looked at each other – then he began to caress her face – her hair, her cheek… His eyes very dark, very focused.

\- One, he said. 

And he began to kiss her, slowly, in a very – deliberate way – it was so strange, tender, but – controlled – professional – like he knew perfectly what he was doing and how he was doing it – but at the same time, the desire was there, just behind the façade, and after a moment of surprise Carrie gave in – responded in kind, first, in the same controlled, professional way, and then control was forgotten – by both of them – the rest of the kiss was passionate and fiery, till they were both out of breath, and they stopped, forehead resting on each other.

They stayed like this for a few seconds, then Quinn said:

\- Two.

\- Wait wait! Carrie whispered.

He just looked at her, inscrutable – Carrie shook her head.

\- I just – I’m not backing down – just waiting to get a little more oxygen in my system before starting again... And, you, know, for my heart rate to go back to normal.

His smile was so amused that she couldn’t resist smiling back – he caressed her face again, still smiling, affection shining in his eyes.

\- What can I say? I’m good.

\- You are – it does make the game pretty… interesting.

\- Two, he repeated.

And he began – very professional again, even kind of aggressive maybe, like he wanted to win something, but Carrie wasn’t letting anyone win, ever, she knew what she was doing too and could prove her worth, but then their talent show was forgotten and for the second time – after a few moments – no one was controlled or professional at all anymore, and then… the kiss went on and on and things took a weird turn - he put his hands on her cheeks and began kissing her face, her eyelids, her brow, with so much… desire, tenderness, that it almost looked like…

She pulled away.

\- I don’t… I don’t know if it’s a good idea… Quinn, I wonder if we shouldn’t… 

\- Shut up, he said, harshly, and then they were kissing again – a third time – and whatever had passed in the last seconds of the second kiss had completely disappeared – it was just sexual now, almost violent – his fingernails were digging in the back of her head and it was a much shorter kiss – not that they didn’t enjoy it, more like they enjoyed it too much, and they were in a restaurant, and ok, the table was in a corner, and the pillars were mostly hiding them from view – fortunately, because in a Muslim country – in any country, really – what they were doing in a public establishment was… not really…

Quinn stopped – he stood up, took his chair back where it belonged, and sat down at his right place at the table again. He was a little flushed – she probably was red as a lobster, she tried to arrange her hair, the waiter was coming, just before he stopped at their table Quinn leant toward her and mouthed, in a low voice:

\- That was “three”.

Carrie didn’t really remembered how she managed to order, or what, but a few seconds later the waiter was gone, and it took a whole minute or two before she could think again. 

Quinn was not looking at her, he was drinking his champagne, looking all glamorous and serene and relaxed in his white shirt – but she wasn’t falling for it, she was not falling for his whole James Bond unpalatable routine, after three kisses like these – no way, he was… ahem… relaxed. No way. No man would have been.

So. She began to drink too, slowly, pondering – the next choice seemed to be a pretty obvious one: his place or hers? But – after all this – it seemed almost anticlimactic – and… 

There was another choice, which was to keep playing. 

\- Those were three pretty enjoyable kisses, she began – after a few minutes of silence. 

She was interrupted by the waiter coming back with their plates, and when he left Quinn didn’t answer, he was still not looking at her, and if it wasn’t a completely illogical deduction Carrie could have thought that he was mad at her. But she had no idea why (she had already forgotten their brief interaction between the second and the third kiss, and how could she know, that for a few seconds he was ready to... forget the game, show her everything, tell her everything - that he was more fragile and open in these few moments that he had been in all her relationship with her? But she had shut him down - she couldn't know - she didn't remember really, this fleeting moment when she had felt he was ready to do, to say something and she had reacted with fear, ready to stop everything - but then the third kiss had erased all this, so she hadn't... noticed, really. In her world view there was no explanation for him being angry, and if it didn’t fit with her world view it meant it was not existing, not happening, so she just erased the thought. 

She looked at her notepad, before adding: 

\- Which is a shame really, because those kisses were not really earned.

\- How’s that? 

He was meeting her eyes again – but he was serious, guarded.

\- I mean, the three answers you gave me were “Peter”, “Quinn”, and “Yes we change our names on missions sometimes”. Honestly, that’s bullshit.

\- Ask better questions.

\- Is the game still on?

\- Do you want it to be?

\- Of course. It’s a fucking great game.

\- Ok then.

\- You’ll answer anything? 

\- I don’t know. Try me.

\- Fine. (She took her pen). Did you really go to Harvard?

\- No.

She paused – just looking at him, stunned – not so much by the answer but by the bluntness of it – she was expecting more hesitations, more explanations, the “no” was so clear cut that it was almost a provocation – forget the “almost”, it was a provocation, she could hear it in his tone, “You want the truth, here it is, can you fucking swallow it?” And there was something else – yes – she had been right. He was mad. About what? 

She didn’t comment though, just draw another mark. 

\- You can’t lie in this game, right? And that’s not an “in game” question.

\- I’m not lying. 

\- So then… what college did you go to?

\- None.

This time she hid her surprise – although she was even more surprised – but ok, he clearly wanted to shock her, and she would not give him the pleasure to realize that he had succeeded. So, another mark, before throwing him a challenging look.

\- You know, nothing in the rules say your answers have to be monosyllabic. You can give me more. A little context, some details…

\- Nothing in the rules say I have to elaborate either.

\- Well, think ahead, Mister Bond. I have to enjoy the game too – I have to feel I’m getting somewhere – that I get… results, or I will not be motivated to keep playing.

\- You want fucking context?

God - he was very angry. She could feel it – the rage was just there, a fucking fiery wall.

\- I grew up in a foster home, he seethed – leaning toward her, talking in a low voice. So no, I didn’t have the money, the family, the opportunity – not even the idea to go to college, really. Then I was recruited – by Dar Adal, at sixteen. He took care of my education from there.

\- Fuck, she whispered. Shit. Quinn.

\- What?

\- I’m sorry. I had no idea…

\- So?

\- So… Nothing… I just… Why didn’t you tell me before?

\- Why would I tell you?

\- I don’t… know… We’re friends…

\- We are?

Ok, well, that worked – she was not feeling sorry for him anymore. It was her turn to feel angry, maybe that was what he was aiming for, to avoid compassion, but then he had succeeded all too well.

\- You know, talking to me like that is not a fucking great way to get me in your fucking bed, you fucking idiot.

He opened his mouth – she saw that he had a scathing answer just ready – but after a brief hesitation he held his tongue, and just turned his head, staring at a window somewhere on the other side of the room – so he still wanted to sleep with her, she thought, that was… good – she guessed – and then her anger vanished in part, to be replaced by sadness, because – well, just a few minutes ago, they were smiling, and kissing, and bantering, and she missed the affectionate look in his eyes, she missed the happiness of the first part of the meal – there had been something there, between them, something good and… 

Was she fucking it up? Was that her fault? She didn’t see how – she didn’t see what she had done wrong, maybe the whole deal just had been an illusion – why would Quinn eyes light up when he looked at her, really? Why would anybody - like her that way – she tried to catch herself, she knew that was how it started - the spiralling – the paranoia, she was on her meds though but - but then he said: 

\- I’m sorry. (He tried to smile.) I am – clearly not doing a good job seducing you.

\- No you’re not. (She stood up.) In fact, I’m going home. And by home, I mean – yeah.

\- No, you’re not, he countered, his voice harsh again.

\- Really?

He showed the notepad.

\- There are still two marks on that thing. I didn’t spill up my secrets for nothing.

\- What are you going to do? Force me?

\- Nope. But – rules are rules – and also – you should be fair. I did give you what you were looking for. 

\- You did, Carrie admitted, slowly.

There were many things in play here. The desire to storm out. The desire to kiss him again – and more. The desire to punish him – so, again, storming out. The desire to understand what was happening – what anger, what kind of lust, made him tick – what explained his reaction – she was an analyst, he was a mystery. And there was of course the desire to prove that she was important, desirable, that he wanted her sexually despite his unexplained fit of hatred, and, then, there was the last motivation, maybe the most fragile and the more important, the human desire, still not clearly defined, to rekindle that light in his eyes. To get him back. To find again the connection that they briefly shared – before it evaporated into rage and thin air.

\- Ok.

Quinn nodded – he seemed, again, so calm. 

\- There’s a little lounge area this way – much more secluded. Come on.

He put money on the table – Carrie didn’t even look, he took her hand and a few minutes later they were in the lounge, which was cozy and small, with comfortable, English looking leather couches and armchairs – it was early in the evening, the lights were off and there was no barman yet – or he was in another area - Quinn pushed her against the wall, and then he didn’t do anything – he put his hands on her shoulders, and just stared at her for a moment.

She looked back – studying him. Stalemate, she thought – or more exactly – what was the term where two powers of equal forces were at a stand-off – no one could make a move because the other one was equally powerful? Like – in the Cold War – except, you know, this war was pretty heated.

He smiled again. A strange, expressionless smile.

\- If those are the last two kisses I get, he said, I want them to count.

That moved something in her – and suddenly she was desperate to touch him, desperate for – yes, for connection, for gentleness, caring, affection, but she couldn’t show it – or say such a thing, not to him, so she just started the kiss – very slowly, very sweetly, putting everything in it – tenderness, passion, using all her superpowers, so to say, to bring him back from – whatever place this rage of his had driven him. She was good enough, she thought, she could do it, she could bring him under her power again (she stopped just for a second, just to whisper “Four” in his ear), and… he just melted into her – she could feel it, she was winning, he was losing control, and it felt so good – she melted into him too, and for a while they were back – both of them, together, connected again, “Carrie…”, he whispered, in an almost broken voice, and it could – everything could have just been uphill from here, the story could have finished here, if she had just… 

(But she didn’t.)

She stopped the kiss – and they stayed a moment in each other arms, silently.

… If she had just shut up.

(But she didn’t.)

\- Why were you mad? she whispered.

She felt him tense. He detached himself slowly from her.

\- I was not mad.

Such a lie.

\- Such a fucking lie, she said, feeling anger rise again.

\- I… (He hesitated.) What I told you, about my youth. Does it change your opinion of me?

And now he was changing the topic – which made Carrie even more furious.

\- I don’t care about that. I mean, I care, of course, as your friend, but apparently, I’m not even your friend, so – you know what does change my opinion of you, though? When you treat me like dirt – all the while trying to screw me – in the literal sense…

His eyes were very dark.

\- Treating you like dirt? Don’t you like that?

She froze. Then she retreated – just walked away, two or three steps. It was as if he had hit her in the gut – tears were swelling in her eyes – she felt so betrayed, so hurt - by someone who, she thought, was never going to hurt her this way. He saw it too, his face completely changed, he took a step toward her, to try to… but now she was regaining her composure.

She walked towards him, eyes shining. She put her hands on his cheeks again, she kissed him, a peck on the mouth, with all the spite she could muster.

\- That was “five”, she said. Enjoy it, cause it was the last one – ever, she added, before storming out of the fucking Marriott, out in the busy streets, in the night and the lights - walking back alone to the embassy, without turning back, without looking back, fueled by hate, fury, loathing – and a sort of bizarre loneliness, a gnawing hopelessness, which she didn’t recognize and didn’t really have a name for.

***

Thus ended their first fucking date.

 

 

(To be Continued... Obviously.)


	6. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part II)

Tuesday was busy at work and Carrie was totally concentrating.

Haqqani. Working contacts. A reunion with madam Ambassador, who was talking about parties – at first Carrie thought she was joking, but madam Ambassador was dead serious. “We invite high ranked officials of the Pakistani government, and everybody we know inside the ISI, she explained. You don’t know how well it works, Ms Mathison. Receiving people with respect, in a luxurious environment, they feel flattered, they relax. They tell you things – they listen to you. You arrange deals in an hour which would have taken a year to make in another context.”

Pretty convincing. So, on one hand, Carrie began to arrange a list of Pakistani guests, while on the other one, they were proceeding to isolate, or even eliminate, most of the secret contacts of those same guests. You know, routine CIA work.

The CIA Station was running like a well-oiled machine. There was a strange calm, a strangely efficient, silent atmosphere that didn’t exist before, Carrie thought, or maybe it was always there and she only saw it now. John Redmond was ironic, distant, competent. Max and Fara were in their own little world, working silently, not really interacting much with the others. 

Carrie looked around. People at their stations, reporting to her, doing as they were told.

Silence. Calm. Everybody – busy.

Yeah, that Monday night, with Quinn, had been a bloody disaster. But she didn’t care. People always betrayed you, right? At the end. 

She was not in Islamabad for furthering interpersonal relationships anyway, she was here to work. Yes, everybody was busy, everything was fine – Quinn was distant, but politely so, he didn’t look at Carrie directly but he answered questions in a very polite, neutral way when they were forced to interact. Their eyes never met, even once – quite a feat, when you knew they had to work together quite frequently. And everybody must have been relieved by the absence of the screaming matches and seething anger that had characterized their last weeks of teamwork.

Tuesday came to an end, and then came Wednesday morning, and Thursday, and nothing happened.

Nothing happened for a week. 

They were working on weekends, of course. They had leads on Hakkani. And around 3 pm Sunday afternoon, (it was a gray day, kind of depressing), Quinn just happened to move toward the work station where Carrie had spent the last two hours, at a moment when they just happened to be alone.

\- Hey.

Carrie didn’t answer. She just stared at whatever gibberish was in front of her.

\- Carrie, can we talk?

\- No.

There was a silence, she still didn’t look at him, didn’t get her eyes off the fucking monitor.

\- Carrie. We have to talk.

\- No.

The silence kept going – finally she turned to look at him. He was standing very still, staring at her, kind of pale, she thought, he seemed tired – like he had not been sleeping well – all the work, certainly. She was sleeping very well – she was taking sleeping pills. She didn’t want to think. She just wanted a routine. She wanted to be on neutral.

\- Ok, he said, and turned around and disappeared somewhere.

She felt nothing. Whatever. Work was good. On neutral.

 

**

 

He tried, again, four days later. 

It was after a meeting. Three hours of meeting, there were five of them, around a small table, and Carrie had succeeded to not look at Quinn once. In three hours. While they were sitting across from one another. Avoidance as an art form – not kidding: an art – try it, one day, three hours, a small table, not one look. Not easy at it sounds. And nobody noticed (except him, of course). 

They were in the corridor. The others were gone.

\- Carrie, he whispered. Let’s talk.

\- No, she answered.

And she just walked away.

 

**

 

Two days later - another meeting with madam ambassador, with her professor husband and John Redmond. They met to talk about the parties – and let’s be honest, it drove Carrie crazy. Talking about fucking seating charts, do you believe that? Discussing menus (without alcohol, obviously). Anyway. All the women in the Embassy had a list of men they had to work on. (Aasar Khan was on Carrie’s list. Good. There was potential there.). All the men had their list too. “Diplomacy has a lot in common with prostitution”, madam Ambassador said – her husband snickered and looked briefly at Carrie’s breasts. 

That man was slime. Never get married, Carrie thought. Madam Ambassador, such a brilliant woman, attached to this – yeah.

Meeting over. Redmond went back to the CIA part of the complex, Carrie took her files and entered a small nearby reception room – she had documents to read, phone calls to make, and it was quiet there, away from everything.

She sat down on one of those low grey armchairs and Quinn just sat down in front of her. 

Appearing from nowhere. Had he been waiting in some corridor for her to exit the Ambassador’s office? That was crazy – surely he was in this part of the building for another reason – she looked at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t. He just looked at her, silently, with a weird uncertainty – he was really pale, she thought, even worse than before – there was dark circles around his eyes – and suddenly she felt… so fucking lonely. 

So lonely she didn’t take off. She should have. She would – if the conversation is not work related, she thought, I will just stand up and leave.

\- Can we talk? he said in a very low voice.

So - not work related. But Carrie didn’t move.

\- There is nothing to talk about.

\- There is. Carrie, just listen. Just give me five minutes and listen.

\- No.

\- This tension is not good for the team.

\- There’s no tension.

\- We have to work together and…

\- Our work is fine.

\- It’s not…

\- It is.

\- Don’t make me beg.

\- Like you would.

\- Isn’t that what I’m already doing?

That jolted her. She looked at him, bewildered – not knowing if he was joking or not. She didn’t get her answer – his face was very still. Then he took her hand – his was cold – and he just hold it, without daring anything else – waiting for her to yank it away, he supposed, but she didn’t - then he put his other hand on hers, and began to stroke her fingers nervously, before whispering:

\- Because I will do it. I will beg. For five minutes of your attention. How do you like that, Carrie? 

She was looking at him, totally stunned; it was the strangest thing – one minute before, she was in this state of efficient blankness – this perfect disconnected state, but now… what he just said, the sheer intensity, the force of the words, yes, being “jolted” out of her indifference was the right way to describe this sensation – it was like suddenly she was here, completely present, completely conscious, of him, of her, of their – hands. 

\- I fucked up, he breathed. I’m sorry. Just - give me another chance.

She stayed speechless. Again, it was not what he was saying, it was how – the need – it was warming her up, nourishing her – being desired, being wanted – she needed that – she thought she didn’t – but… she shook her head. 

\- We can’t… talk here.

They couldn’t. A door opened, Madam Ambassador and her husband were walking towards them. Quinn had let go of her hand, Carrie took a file and pretended to study it.

\- Tonight? he asked.

\- Ok.

Carrie stood up and had a polite chat with madam Ambassador and the slime, and then it was lunch time.

 

**

 

8 pm. They had not established a time or a place, but she was sure he’d find her, and he did – he was in the corridor, his back on the wall, waiting, when she got to the door of her apartment.

\- We’re not going in, she warned, coldly. 

\- Ok, he answered. We’ll just talk here, near the ice machine. Seems appropriate.

She narrowed her eyes – he was not the same guy than this morning. That man, on the grey armchair, who held her hand and desperately asked for five minutes, she had never seen him before – but right now, this Quinn? In the corridor, perfectly in control, with a little smirk on his face – oh, he was familiar.

\- You’re so – it’s like you have different personalities, sometimes, she mused. I mean – I’m never sure which one of you I’m gonna get. I’m not like that. I’m the same, all of the time.

\- Yeah, I guess you are, he answered after a pause. You’re this blond force of nature, every day. Like a tsunami.

\- Whatever. What do the hell do you even want, Quinn? Five minutes, remember?

He took a step toward her, and explained evenly:

\- As I told you – I fucked up last time. I will say anything to make it right. But… Think ahead. You are lonely. I am lonely. We like each other – well, I like you at least – and we respect each other, we work well together… 

He paused for a second. Clearly a rehearsed speech, Carrie thought. 

\- And you’re physically very – as I said, I like you. And I am not repulsive myself. So, you know. Let’s sleep together. On a regular schedule. Without any expectations, or pressure.

Wow. Now she was stunned again – but in a totally different way. The nerve. Begging? Are you kidding me? He was so full of it. 

She shook her head.

\- You’re such a…

\- … rational guy whose analysis of the situation is perfectly accurate? Don’t tell me sex and companionship wouldn’t be beneficial for both of us.

\- You insulted me.

\- You insult me all the time.

\- Not that way… You think you’re… No, you know what? No. No. You said I liked being treated like dirt.

\- Do you think I will treat you like dirt? Do you think I ever did? How do I treat you, generally speaking?

\- God. You clearly don’t know the first thing about apologizing.

\- I apologize.

\- For fuck sake.

She shook her head. What an ass – he was so bad at this, except maybe he wasn’t, because exhibit A – she was still here listening to him – and exhibit B – she was… 

She was actually considering it. Fuck. 

Was she crazy? You know, all those – women magazines. She could see the article, right here: “Islamabad Cosmopolitan! Rule number 17 of healthy relationships: don’t sleep with a man who said you liked to be treated like dirt.” It was so obvious – even her dysfunctional self knew it was a really bad idea – but then when did she listen to reason (or women magazines) anyway, and also – maybe those rules didn’t apply to Quinn or to her? Because, sure they had a real strange and twisted relationship, but he was right – despite all appearances – about mutual respect. 

\- Let me paint a picture, he said. You have to work on those seating charts – except you do it in bed – we’re both naked – and I help you. Don’t these chores suddenly look a lot better?

She couldn’t help laughing.

\- How do you know about the seating charts?

\- John Redmond told me they were driving you nuts.

\- Good sleuthing.

\- I’m using everything I can.

\- Ok, she murmured. Listen. I am considering it, but I’m still mad.

\- Ok…

\- And I want revenge.

\- I can think of a number of ways…

\- It’s too soon for fucking sexual innuendo, Quinn, she seethed, but the amused gleam in his eyes didn’t disappear. (She crossed her arms.) Ok, no, you know what? I’m not convinced yet. 

\- I guess making me jumps through hoops is part of the revenge. 

\- It is, yes, but it’s also a method of self-preservation. Because our first date began so well, but then... So I’m kind of wary here.

\- Fair enough. How about a second date – you see how it goes – and you take your decision after?

She pause before answering.

\- Fine… I guess, she said, finally.

\- Cause we had a lot of fun, at first, right?

\- We did.

\- Ok. So, there is a little restaurant I know on Pur Village. Great daal makhani. Want to try it on Wednesday?

\- You so clearly came prepared.

\- Of course I did, he said with a cocky smile, and his confidence was kind of charming, and Carrie’s smiled back, and you know what?  
Things began to feel kind of good again.

 

**

 

The second date was much more relaxed that the first. They ate the whole meal, which was delicious, talking and laughing, with Quinn regularly going back to his James Bond routine – Carrie was playing along now, even impersonating old school James Bond girls, from Ursula Andress to Carole Bouquet.

\- So what was the content of the Casanova Course? she asked, while they were sharing dessert. I mean, was there… a romancing class? A sexy small talk, er, syllabus? “Goals, Objective and Strategy of Sexual Preliminaries”?

\- Absolutely. 

\- How did you practice?

\- We had an arrangement with a nearby modeling school. The girls came to spend the nights.

\- Government work. So hard.

\- Yep. We were.

\- See? James Bond would never make that kind of joke, commented Carrie, eating the last piece of cake. But really, you’re not the James Bond type. He is… optimistic. You’re darker. Like, Bruce Wayne or something.

\- But is Bruce Wayne seducing chaste and beautiful CIA agents? 

\- Not CIA agents, but there’s Vicky Vale, and Cat Woman, and… What was the last Batman you saw? 

Quinn frowned.

\- I don’t think I saw any of them.

\- God you have no life.

\- Look who’s talking. 

Carrie shook her head.

\- A few of those movies are really good, you know. We should watch them sometimes – I’m sure they have them on demand on that thing in our rooms…

\- As long as we watch them naked.

\- Such tact, such delicacy. Please remember you don’t even know if you’re going to be invited in my room tonight.

\- I remember – I’m just hoping for the best – and, again, I’m painting a picture in my mind. You, me, no clothes, a Batman movie. Not an unpleasant view.

\- Do you know you’re not supposed to say those things aloud? I mean, of course everybody pictures – eventual, future, possible… stuff… during the dinner, but it’s in very bad taste to actually say you’re doing it.

\- I think our total lack of good manners is one of the reasons we go along so well.

\- Or the reason we yell at each other all the time.

\- Yeah, that too. So – let’s be clear. If I understand the nature of your little game, even if I am invited in your room, and things go… naked, I’m not sure to be invited back… Do I understand you well?

\- You do. You’ll have to prove your talents. Are you up to the challenge?

\- I’m up for anything.

\- Oh. Come. On.

\- What? How on earth are you interpreting my perfectly innocent answer? 

\- Yeah, clearly, I’m the one with a filthy mind.. This dessert was wonderful. Do they serve mint tea here?

\- With the right bribe, we can get whisky.

\- Yes. Please. Bribe away.

It took them a few minutes to get the bottle, and then Quinn sat down on the cushions near her. Carrie was smiling, she felt a little nervous again when he took her hand – he did not seem worried, he just seemed – calmly happy, she didn’t see him often like this, and then he caressed her hair and said:

\- We shared four real kisses last time. But the fifth one was disappointing.

\- Well, fuck you, she said – with a mix of laughter and anger – she really didn’t like to be reminded of that moment – it was – a date with a different guy. 

\- I think we should try another one to erase that unpleasant memory.

\- You have not earned a sixth kiss y…, she began to say, but he just put his lips on her to shut her up.

\- Six, he said, then he started again, and things slowly got more heated, then very heated, and she realized when he pulled back, a few minutes later, that she had kind of lost herself in the moment.

\- Seven, she uttered - a little out of breath.

He was watching her silently.

\- Want to get out of there? she added.

\- Fuck yeah.

Then he took her hand and they walked briskly back, through the hotel courtyard, across the road and through the “secret” embassy tunnel.

 

**

 

A few minutes later they were in her room, fully clothed (and no Batman movie in sight). She was standing, her back on the wall, near the kitchen – he was just there watching her, not doing anything – it was a little strange. When he had led her in this part of the room she had figured they were on for a wild fuck against the wall, and why not, but now it seemed he had another idea in mind.

The wait was making her curious. And eager.

\- What are you thinking? she asked.

\- Just let me lead, ok?

As if it was a dance. She was definitely intrigued now. He unbuttoned her shirt, got her bra off, so now she was half naked – he put his hand on her naked skin – and didn’t move for a while. Like he was – listening to her heart beat. Then he began to caress her, still only with one hand, she closed her eyes – it was so gentle, strange, and… arousing (and not what she expected at all) - then he got her completely naked and kept on caressing her – not doing anything really sexual, but the fact that she was naked and he was fully clothed was very… interesting, she shivered, tried to get his shirt off too but he just kissed her hands and put them back on the wall (“Later”, he breathed) then he said “Eight” and kissed her... everywhere – but again, doing nothing your grandmother couldn’t watch at 9 pm on TV on a school night, it was unnerving and wonderful, this “borderline sexual” contact, and when he was back near her face again she put her hands behind his neck and held him close, despite instructions.

\- This is…quite… a unusual way to go about things… 

He smiled.

\- I try.

\- Isn’t it a little dangerous… if your goal is to be invited back? 

She was joking – but then she saw it – it was so fugitive that, again, she forgot it less than a minute after – but still, she had caught it, at that moment, the flash of – fear. Of something bordering hopelessness, and it crossed her mind at light-speed, the idea that it was all an act – the certainty, the cockiness, everything, since he had been waiting for her near her apartment door, yes, an act, a pretence – but then his expression changed, and the feeling and the thought vanished as quickly that they had appeared.

\- Well, aren’t we an impatient little creature, he said, and then he – passed his fingernails all over her body, kind of meanly, and she yelped – after that things got ardent, she didn’t remember the details, but soon they were both naked and on the bed and this is certainly the fierce and fiery part that your grandmother shouldn’t watch – look, she’s turning off the TV now – anyway next thing Carrie remembered it was 2 or 3 in the morning and there were lying side by side, exhausted and in a very, very good mood.

\- So? he said (and the amused pride in his voice was certainly not a sham, this time.) Verdict?

\- I don’t know, she said with a huge smile – she stretched like a cat – I’ll have to think about it.

\- You bitch, he whispered, half laughing, half serious – she was laughing too, and he turned and pinned her on the bed and then they were kissing again.

\- I lost count, she breathed.

\- “One hundred and forty seven”, he announced, before putting his lips on her neck – and biting – and soon they were busy again, laughing and joking and – experimenting, and she lost track of time for the second time and somewhere they fell asleep and next time she knew it was morning.

A few beams of sun were getting through the window. He was already up and making coffee, she was waking up slowly – shutting off the 7 am alarm as soon as it began. This is great, she thought – no uneasiness, no morning after stupid tension, no shame or anything – because things were crystal clear – they had a deal in place, and she loved that.

Coffee was smelling so good. She yawned.

\- So, what do we say, Quinn? Twice a week… With - what were your words? “No expectations, no pressure?”

\- Sounds fine to me, he answered, hunting for something in her almost empty cupboards.

\- No expectations, no pressure… No exclusivity?

\- … Sure, he answered, but there had been a slight pause this time, she guessed it was because he couldn’t find a second mug – maybe because she didn’t own a second one.

\- Good, she mused, and then she stretched again, and she glanced at the fucking seating charts, waiting on her night table – and then at the list of the men she was supposed to “work on” at the party.

Aasar Khan, first name on that list.

\- Good, she repeated. 

Thus ended their second date. Quinn was getting back to bed with two mugs of coffee – a mug and a glass, to be accurate.

She would need an evening dress. Black. Very classy – and just a tad provocative. With just the right amount of cleavage.

\- Good, she repeated for the third time. Ok. I’ve to go shopping today.

 

 

(Definitely to be continued…)


	7. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part III)

That’s how it started, their little arrangement, every Monday and Wednesday. No pressure, no expectations, no exclusivity. But a lot of sex. A LOT. And having a good time in restaurants, flirting and laughing, and talking shop, working in bed together, talking about seating charts – or snipers attacks, terrorists networks, blackmail and entrapment – and then kissing, and then, again, sex. 

All those nights. Passionate. Perfect. For him, anyway – he was wondering about her, sometimes. Or, to be honest, often (always). What did she think? What did she feel? Did she completely buy into the “arrangement” story? Because – after what Max said – she had to know, right? But maybe she didn’t, after all, she had been bloody oblivious for so long. But then again – Quinn knew he was not that good an actor. And sometimes he… I mean, how could she not know? 

But maybe she didn’t. 

In the office, the rumors had stopped circulating, because when they turn into facts, you can’t call them rumors anymore. Everybody knew they were sleeping together – all those restaurants. And maybe someone has seen them in the tunnel, holding hands and walking fast. Anyway. Facts are less interesting than speculation, so really, people just soon lost interest. Except a few morons who kept asking him to ask Carrie for favors, because “you two are so close”, they said, with a little smile – Quinn always, always refused. And pretended not to understand the allusion or the smile.

The office atmosphere changed. Carrie was happier, more relaxed, hell, he was happier, and of course there were jokes, the “She just needed to get laid” kind of jokes. Never when Quinn was in the room, though. 

It was early in the game, by the way, at their tenth or eleventh “date”, that Carrie had the epiphany about the Embassy tunnel. She and Quinn were coming back from a bar, it was a Thursday night; they were in a pretty good mood. And then she stopped, right there, in the middle of the “secret” tunnel.

\- This is dangerous, she said.

\- What?

\- This. This tunnel’s very existence.

Quinn frowned.

\- It’s useful. We can’t conduct operations with the ISI agents watching our every move at the front door.

\- Yes, but – she was thinking, thinking hard, he could almost hear her brain ticking. Quinn, we still don’t know who switched my meds.

\- Sure, but…

\- If we have a breach, what did the traitor say? To whom? Who knows about this place now?

By “this place”, she meant this whole, gaping, unprotected road into the heart of the Embassy, and Quinn suddenly felt cold – and they were very alone, both of them, far from back up, and he had just the one gun to protect her – he took his phone, and began to give orders, fast, and one hour later twenty marines were closing the fucking thing.

There was an uproar – almost a riot. The tunnel was so practical, it simplified everything; without it agents were now losing precious minutes, sometimes hours, at the main entrance with all the precautions and searches. After a while, Carrie pretended to cave and had the tunnel reopened – under the constant surveillance of fifteen heavy armed Marines. Of course, in the meantime, they had managed to create another secret exit, because Quinn was right, they had to have a way to leave the embassy undetected.

So now, there was the “secret” tunnel, which a lot of people knew about, and which was heavily protected, and then there was the real secret tunnel (more of a secret passage, really), whose existence was only known by seven people – a short list that Quinn and Carrie had established. Even Madam Ambassador was not on it.

A few weeks passed. The seating charts had been completed. The first party had gone well – a very formal dinner, two hundred guests in the luxurious reception room of the Embassy, all Pakistani important government (and secret service) officials. Everyone in evening gowns, silverware, crystal glasses - Madam Ambassador was wonderful as usual, elegant, clever, funny. Everybody in the CIA had a mark they were supposed to work on at dinner. 

Quinn’s mark was sitting on his left, she was a shy and little overweight secretary who was interesting because she had been working with one of the ISI director for a while before being transferred. She was sweet, Quinn could be very charming and by dessert she was laughing and blushing and telling stories about a dissension between the Pakistani secretary of justice and one of the most respected judge of Islamabad, not riveting stuff, but you never knew what could turn out to be useful. 

Just across the table, Carrie was all smiles talking to Aasar Khan, who seemed to appreciate the company a lot. It was amusing to see Carrie flirting, at least at first. Quinn and Carrie even exchanged knowing glances during the meal, like “Are we good at this game or what?”. And when Quinn’s “date” giggled too loudly Carrie watched them for a while with a proud smile on her face. 

Yes, at first the game was really fun, but after a while, something shifted in Quinn’s mind – or maybe something shifted in Carrie’s behavior toward Khan. It seemed she was really, really focusing on him now – she was not even glancing at Quinn anymore, she was just… she actually seemed into Khan now, Quinn thought briefly – which was stupid, of course she wasn’t, Khan was her mark, it was just work, it was just that contrary to Quinn, Carrie was that good an actress… but Quinn still felt uneasy, and he decided to retaliate by really focusing on his date to make her jealous – except it didn’t work, Carrie didn’t seem to notice anything, after the dinner there were drinks – most of it without alcohol, but there was a discreet little champagne bar in the corner for those who were interested, and Carrie soon disappeared with Khan and a glass of champagne on a little terrace, and Quinn felt – really bad.

At least his stupid jealousy had had excellent professional results. His prey was completely under his charm, and despite all the glances he was throwing in the general direction of the terrace, Quinn kept being the perfect evening companion – and when she finally told something important (about an undersecretary having an affair, great blackmail opportunity) Quinn was sane enough to smile and nod and entice her to say more, and finally the woman had to go, but the information had been worth it – and as soon as she had left the room Quinn went straight to the terrace – and sure enough, Carrie was still there, with Khan, but they had been joined by other guests, and the conversation was political and Khan and Carrie were not even standing side by side, so Quinn joined them and the rest of the evening was really rather pleasant. It was a Wednesday, so when the last guests went home Carrie looked at Quinn significantly and Quinn just smiled back and a few minutes later they were kissing like mad in the corridor near her room, they bumped into her door, she finally opened it, and when they were inside Quinn began to nibble her neck.

\- Quite a dress that you’re wearing, he paused just enough to say. Very classy. Just a little bit provocative. I like the cleavage.

\- I bought it for Khan, she answered, and Quinn just… 

… nothing, actually, he didn’t do or say anything different, he just got her out of the dress ASAP and the sex was just a little more rough than it usually was. 

So rough that the next day, Carrie had bruises on her arm, from her wrist to her elbow… from the moment he had been pinning her on the bed in a kind of unusual way – which she seemed to enjoy very much. But Carrie didn’t spend much time in front of a mirror, and to be honest they had been in a hurry to get dressed in the morning, so - she had not noticed the bruises, and neither had he, and there was a meeting a 8 – that Carrie led very efficiently, and when she was gone and everybody had scattered there were just Fred and Matteo left in the corridor - Quinn was looking at something on his phone, turning his back to them.

Fred whispered:

\- Have you seen the bruises? Someone had wild sex tonight.

\- Yeah, said Matteo. That doesn’t look good. I hope nothing serious happened…

\- To that bitch? Fred said. I hope something did. Something really deeeep and serious and forceful, you know?

\- For God’s sake, Fred.

\- What? Are you on a politically correct high horse now?

\- She’s our boss, you fool, Matteo said – and walked away – and Quinn calmly put his phone in his pocket, and turned to Fred – who realized with horror that (one) Quinn had overheard the conversation and (two) they were alone, and Quinn didn’t wait, didn’t talk, didn’t think, he just hit Fred right in the face with his palm, the blow was calculated to be very, very painful, but not forceful enough to break his nose, and Fred fell down, blood everywhere on his face, and began protesting and whimpering. 

\- Are you crazy? he stuttered. You’re fucking crazy!

Quinn crouched near him.

\- Your friend is right, you know. Carrie Mathison is your boss. And even if she wasn’t, I think a little sexual harassment suit would end your career right away. Which would make me so happy – but which would make you so sad – so how about we both forget about this little incident?

\- You’re a psychopath, Fred finally managed to say – still writhing on the carpet. You attacked that guy, back in that bar – you went to jail – you’re screwed up – and you’re screwing that… psycho bitch…

\- Hey, you’re the one bleeding on the floor. And I could just put my shoe on your face and press, you know? (Quinn crouched nearer.) So I don’t think you wanna push the “psychopath” angle too much right now.

Fred told everybody that he was in a brawl in a little restaurant in a bad neighborhood – “You should see the other guy”, he kept repeating, with a proud smile. Not when Quinn was around, though.

Quinn felt vaguely guilty afterwards – not really for hitting Fred, but because he was doubting his own motivations in the matter. Was he defending Carrie’s honor or was he was still mad about this Khan… eventuality? Did he took his anger out on a (not so) innocent bystander?

Well, what was done was done. And it did make him feel better.

After that – there was a reprieve. The Khan thing just faded into the background – Carrie concentrated on other things – and they were happy. Every Monday and Wednesday, they were – or at least Quinn was.

Quinn remembered one day, in particular – he remembered it for a long time, after, when things turned sour. When he was desperate, and he had just a few crumbs of light to feed him in the darkness – it was this day he clung too, God only knew why.

It was just – a normal day. But maybe normalcy was why it was so wonderful. It was a Monday, and for whatever reason – Quinn didn’t remember why after – Carrie didn’t work in her office but in the main communication room. There were four of them around a table (on the left near the wall) - John Redmond, Fara, Quinn and Carrie, they spent all day there, concentrating on strategies to infiltrate a dangerous group near the eastern frontier, and they discussed, bouncing ideas, slowly elaborating a pretty good plan. 

Nothing unusual again, except she trusted his opinion and he trusted hers – they didn’t argue once – and work was just fluid, and good, and constructive. And – because it was Monday - after an honest day's work, they left the room discreetly around 8 pm - to meet in a little restaurant, a simple and delicious place with local food where they already had “their” table in a little corner behind a curtain, and – you know, what does make a normal evening memorable? 

Many details, really. First they were both in an excellent mood after that day. Second, Quinn was beginning to hope… just, you know, a slight, fragile hope… because, it was the plan, to create an easy, trustful, efficient work relationship, which could be upgraded to a trustful, easy _personal_ relationship, and wasn’t it what they kind of already had now? Or at least that’s they were having tonight... they were sitting on low cushions, eating and kind of working still, discussing the details of the plan, but their knees were touching (on purpose) and every few minutes or so he caressed her thigh (still talking about drone range), and after dessert she just held his hand thoughtlessly, like it was a perfectly routine thing to do – like they were this normal couple. Like they’ve been together for years. Like love was a given. 

After the tea, he sat beside her, and a few seconds later they were just making out, like high school kids (that was what the curtain was for, of course, giving Islamabad couples a little privacy), and it lasted for a good half an hour and, it was tender and lo… and affectionate (he had to stop using that other word, or it was going to mess with his head). 

They went back to Carrie’s apartment, they made decaf while kissing near the coffee machine, in a very relaxed, casual kind of way, and then they had sex and it was great but it was also – normal, in the best, most wonderful sense of the world, and then they just fell asleep, and the best thing was the morning – he got up first (he generally did) and got two mugs of coffee back to the bed (well, again, one mug and one glass, because Carrie still didn’t own two mugs), and there they just stayed there, in bed, for a while, sipping coffee and reading news on their computers, shoulders touching. Then Carrie kissed him briefly before getting up. 

His eyes followed her as she went to take a shower, and he thought that it was a perfect moment, if he could just save it, preserve it forever.

Three days later, in the afternoon, Carrie whispered to him:

\- Hey, meet me in my office in five, I’ve got something to tell you.

Five minutes later he was there.

\- I slept with Khan yesterday, she said (while sorting some files). I think it has real potential – but the ISI has spies everywhere, and I don’t want him to think that I’m cheating on him or playing him or something. Well, of course, I’m playing him, but, you know. So I’m thinking – let’s put an end to our little arrangement, ok? Oh, also… we’ve got to talk about the new security measures, at the door.

Then she turned to Fara, who just entered the office, and who wanted to ask about the cafeteria repairs.

 

 

(To be continued...)


	8. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part IV)

He was just a little scattered after that.

Memories of the following hours were blurry. He got through the day, perfectly professional, a little curt when someone asked too many questions, that’s all. Then he got back to his room – in a weird state of disbelief. She had just ended… everything, like this – with a short sentence, in a middle of a conversation? Maybe he had misheard – maybe Carrie had said “Let’s put an end to our little arrangement _for now._ ”… Right? “For now”? But he turned and turned the sentence in his brain, what she said and – there was no “for now”. 

Just: “I’m sleeping with Khan. Let’s put an end to this.”

What staggered him the most was not the break-up, it was the casual cruelty. The tranquility. The absolute non importance of the fact that she was, in a few words, destroying the most important relationship of his life (while looking at her files).

He slept for hours (it was as if he had taken a blow, as if he had been shocked) but it was the last night he did. After that, sleep was – scattered, too. When darkness came, sometimes he would doze off for a few minutes, sometimes an hour. Sometimes he would just stay in his bed, all night, eyes open, it was too dangerous to close them, God knows what he would see then. Because… it was all gone. Because… those few words, this (again) casual cruelty and absolute indifference of hers were the proof that every hope of his had been false – mirages, figments of his imagination. It was going so well (but maybe it was going so well for him). The connection. The tenderness. (But maybe that was just him.) The camaraderie, the sex, the passion (but maybe the passion was only his, had never been anything but his) so, anyway, he had thought – you know. But – see, those were not recent hopes. Even when she was with Brody, even when Brody was on the other side of the earth, and she was redecorating the walls of her house and the borders of her brains with maps and pictures and theories of where Brody could be, even then, there was a part of Quinn who thought it was not that she didn’t love him, it was that she didn’t love him _yet_. He had thought the potential was there, the foundation, and that one day would come a fire to light everything up. He had thought the “arrangement” was the fire. Who would lit everything up. 

But there was nothing to light up. The potential was all in his imagination. And that’s what those cold few sentences had done, they hadn’t only destroyed his recent hopes (who cared about that?), they had proven that everything he had believed, clung to for years was a lie, was nothing, illusions, mist. 

And now the mist had dissipated. 

Days passed. He bought alcohol – in tourist shops. He worked himself to death – he kept not sleeping – every morning he took a cold shower to try to wake up, to be conscious, to not – he had one thing left maybe, his pride – he didn’t want her to realize the state he was in – he shouldn’t have bothered, really, because she didn’t see anything. She hadn’t changed his attitude toward him, she was pleasant, friendly, professional, her mind elsewhere. He was invisible to her. She was focusing on Khan – and on other problems – and days passed again and even pride began to dissipate. Cause who was he, really? he thought, sometimes, at night – or even in the ops room, staring at his monitor, not seeing anything – Fara was giving him worried looks now, he hoped she was the only person who had noticed – but really he didn’t care. Yes, who was he? The corpses of nine years old kids laying on the floor. So many deaths, like so many pieces of his puzzle, and when he had realized that his life was all wrong – that he was a force for wrong – the… esteem Carrie had for him was a proof – that there was something there, in him, something to hold on for. And the hope that esteem could turn into affection (that if it hadn’t yet it was just a question of circumstances) (Brody’s circumstances)… it was the tiny, minuscule possibility that there was a part of him that deserved… keeping, because if someone so clever, so brilliant (so luminous) could eventually – appreciate – then – but it had been delirious, a love fever, crazy – there was nothing there – nothing in her, and thus, nothing in him.

And days passed again. 

The strangest thing was – he was still here. Still alive, yes, but mostly, still here, in Islamabad. Why was he? Why has he not asked for his transfer yet? He would have laughed if someone had told him the truth at first, but then, when he did realize that truth, on his own, he actually did laugh, bitterly. In his room, not sleeping, on his bed, watching the absence of cracks in the ceiling. 

Hope. 

How cruel, and true, was the Pandora tale, he thought – yeah, weird mythology thoughts go through your head at 3am when you are heartbroken and have not slept for days – do you remember the Pandora tale, people? Quinn learned it when he was 18, and Dar Adal was forcing him to take all these courses “to get a fucking education”, so Quinn obeyed (grudgingly) (he was so young at the time, so naïve), he did it because he was ambitious and driven and also Dar Adal was his mentor and young Quinn would have died before disappointing him. (Wait – was this concept familiar? Fuck, he was messed up.) Anyway, there were literary courses and young Quinn really, really didn’t see the point. What was mythology and fucking symbolism fucking good at, anyway? When you were educated to kill people? And it made no sense most of the time – this Pandora fable, for instance. See, Pandora had opened a box, or a jar, or a fucking Fedex envelope, for all he cared, and released all the evils of humanity. Startled, she had closed the box in a hurry – trapping Hope inside. What did that fucking story even mean? Were the ancient Greeks morons or what? Hope was not an evil! Hope was a good thing, right?

Oh, but now he got it – years later, awake in a grey bed in fucking Pakistan. Hope was shit. Hope was the worst curse the Gods had ever bestowed on humans. Because you know what? That was why he was still here, in Islamabad. Because he was still hoping. That she’d miss him. That she’d regret her decision. 

Right? 

Pandora. How hilarious.

**

It took her three weeks to regret her decision.

Or maybe it took her three weeks to realize she was regretting her decision. Because Carrie didn’t really put a name on what was happening at first. Because, at first, she was focusing on Aasar Khan, and Aasar Khan was a hell of a beautiful man.

Sacrificing her virtue for her country had never felt better. Shit – that body, those eyes. Sexually, Khan was making a show of it, she was making a show of it; they were in a James Bond fantasy, two spies showing off, pretending to be enamored of each other when really they were keeping total emotional distance – when Carrie thought of the James Bond comparison, she instantly wanted to tell Quinn – that would make him laugh, considering how their arrangement began, but Quinn was not here, she was in the arms of another man – in a huge bed in a delightful room in a sumptuous palace surrounded by exquisite gardens – all of which owned by Khan’s cousin. Khan’s family was loaded, and powerful. Carrie knew that, of course. She had committee Khan’s file to memory, but it was one thing to know something, another to experience the luxury. The servants. The food. The ancient architecture, with the gorgeous centuries old mosaics, the books, the fountains, all the weight of history and power. The Khan family had a pretty modern outlook on life, most of them educated in American or English colleges, as you would if you were that rich – and there was something to play here, definitely, with some members of the family – Carrie had to talk to Quinn about it – how they could instigate a friendly influence without alienating Khan – yes, if their arrangement had still been on, it would had been a conversation that she would have had with Quinn – both of them naked, in her sheets, in her room, and Carrie pictured it for a few seconds, her head reposing on Quinn’s chest as they were discussing the case of Aasar Khan’s niece (30, single, very talented, had one of those Muslim feminist blogs) and…

Carrie shook herself out of it. She was in Khan’s bed. Both of them naked, in his sheets, in his room, her head reposing on Khan’s chest. And that’s when she realized maybe it was a little weird, how her thoughts kept drifting away to... 

Yeah. A little weird.

She did tell Quinn about the James Bond thing, the next day. He was working, concentrated and serious, of course, when was he not? Carrie waited till there was nobody in the ops room to go near him and whisper:

\- Hey, you know what? I just realized – with Khan – you know, two spies sleeping together – in a splendid foreign city – well, I just realized I was doing the James Bond thing, with him. But, you know, for real?

He looked at her.

\- Funny, he said, after a pause.

\- I thought you’d appreciate it.

\- I do.

She walked away with a smile – good to know they were still on the same wavelength, she and Quinn.

Days passed. She kept sleeping with Khan. Now she had told Fara – she needed support and someone to bounce ideas with and Quinn was too busy with other stuff to really help her. And when it was Monday, or Wednesday, she – well, she thought about him. Damn. That was unexpected. Maybe it was not so much Quinn she missed, she reasoned, as much as their interaction, their connection, their easy conversations and, of course, the nights… She was alone, in her office, when she had this crazy realization – that she missed their arrangement –she still had taken the right decision, it was all for a good cause – but then she thought – I could go tell him. She could go out of her office, right now, tell him that she missed their “thing”. But… No. Quinn would laugh – not with her, but at her, he was not the kind of guy to whom you’d admit those things – he’d find her weak – clingy – well – whatever. She had stuff to do. 

Days passed again. 

Then came the second party. A luxurious buffet, which had meant, thanks heaven, no seating charts to negotiate. It was an even bigger turnout than the first function, and to her own surprise Carrie had been looking forward to it… after hating even the thought of the first, but as it turned out, she had a great time at that dinner and she intended to have fun at this one too. 

And she did enjoy herself, at least at first. Madam Ambassador was perfect, again. Her husband got a little drunk and leered at women, again. Everybody had a mark and everybody was smiling and flirting and working and looking good. Carrie was proud of her troops – Quinn was nowhere to be seen but she had spotted him earlier looking glamorous (though a little thin) and smiling to the older lady he was supposed to charm. Carrie searched for him for a few seconds – for a very stupid reason – she was wearing a new dark green dress which she thought was looking good on her, and Quinn had appreciated the other dress, so maybe he would praise this one – he always told her stupid little complimentary jokes when she was well dressed before – more rarely now – ok, never now – God, how silly was she? Then a hand brushed discreetly the back of her neck, Khan appeared behind her and whispered in her ear, just a little too close:

\- Gorgeous dress.

Carrie turned and smiled and answered, touching him slightly on the arm – all part of the game. People were watching; she guessed everybody knew about her and Khan now, all of her people did anyway – she was treating Khan as an asset, they were talking about him and making plans. She supposed they were doing the same thing on the Pakistani side – Khan certainly had a Carrie Mathison’s file and a Carrie Mathison’s team and – she smiled to the man in question – she kind of liked it. 

\- You are looking good too, sir. A white shirt does suit you.

\- White is classic. And it works, for such a formal evening. (Then, Khan said in his “we both know people are listening” voice:) I was wondering, Ms Mathison – do you like Beethoven? Because there is a private concert in one of my friend’s mansion, next week – I think maybe you would appreciate the orchestra, and be my date that day. 

\- Oh, I certainly would, she said – she didn’t give a shit about Beethoven, but you know, chances were, neither did Khan. 

\- You know why I love occidental classical music? he lied. Because when I was first exposed to…

… and then Khan began to blather about the first concert he went to in Vienna, and the reason Carrie thought he lied was the very precise, rehearsed way he was talking – it didn’t mean Khan didn’t like classical music for real, or that the concert in Vienna never existed – it just meant he was playing a role, which was nothing new, but God knows why, she was suddenly getting tired of playing. But it was her job, so she flirted and smiled and pretended to be interested in literature and violins and to admire Khan’s extensive culture, and then, at last, she caught sight of Quinn on the other side of the room – he was with the woman again, but he was watching Carrie – watching her deal with Khan, she thought – Carrie met his eyes, wondering if Quinn was admiring her skill, but hey, he was good too, in his way, and suddenly she didn’t want to be with Khan anymore, she wanted to talk to Quinn – they never seemed to talk these days, why was that? Except now Quinn was not looking at her anymore, he was smiling to his “date”, completely focusing on her, and Carrie felt a stupid (very stupid) little pang. 

\- Did I lose you with my Wagner’s related ramblings? Khan asked.

Carrie turned to him instantly.

\- You never could, she said – but she had seen it – the glint in Khan’s eyes – the man was far from dumb (please remember that, Carrie), and yes, he had seen her staring at Quinn, alright.

\- Ok, Carrie said in a low voice. Off the record, right?

\- Obviously, Khan said in his smoothest voice.

\- Well, we all assign… marks to our agents, during a party, you know? she whispered, like she was telling him a secret which was not really a secret because they were both pros and bonding over secret services’ mishaps – you do the same, I suppose?

\- I wouldn’t know, Khan said. (His smile went wider.) Or I wouldn’t say.

\- Well, Peter Quinn’s talking to the wrong… person, Carrie added. (She made a theatrical sigh.) So hard to find good help this days.

Khan actually laughed – it sounded sincere. Carrie had noticed, during their “relationship”: she made him laugh, for real. That was good.

\- Well, then here is something back, between pros, he said. (See? Khan knew how to play.) Your man is losing his energy with this one. (He leaned toward Carrie.) She’s a bitch.

\- Damn. Too bad. 

She shrugged, a little too theatrically maybe, and changed the subject, but she was still uneasy, she was really expecting to have fun at this party and instead, she was growing restless. So by boredom more than lust, she maneuvered to get Khan to the terrace, near the “cigarette balcony”, and whispered to him:

\- I’m going to tell you one of the CIA most kept secrets. You know, on the left, behind the potted plants, there’s a little balcony you can’t really see now… That’s where we all take our cigarette breaks – though it’s illegal to smoke in this building, even outside.

Khan smiled.

\- At last incriminating information I can use.

\- And, said Carrie, it’s also where people go sometime, when they want a discreet place to… (She did the little sexy head tilt Khan liked). … You know.

Khan looked at her, sincerely shocked – he was still a Muslim, and also, Carrie suspected, all of this “glamorous spies” game they were doing, sure he was having fun with it, but basically – she was learning to know him better now – under everything, Khan was just a good guy. Just a normal (filthy rich) run of the mill good guy. Not the kind to disrespect women by fucking them senseless on CIA balconies. 

Maybe it had not been a clever play. He was still staring at her, stunned:

\- You want to…

\- Yes, she said. Not right now – too many people. When guests will begin to leave.

Khan just nodded – he was staring at her as if she was an alien – but she could see he was getting excited, too. So, a good guy, but still a guy. Except, there was also a slight, almost imperceptible nuance of disgust there – yeah, whatever, it was not as if she was marriage material, anyway. 

But still… disgust. Carrie felt – something – and she said:

\- I’ll be back. Still have to talk to the Ambassador. Will you wait for me?

He smiled. (It was just a little artificial).

\- I warn you, I may have conversations with other beautiful women while I’m waiting.

Carrie smiled back. (It was just a little artificial).

\- I feel generous. I’ll allow it.

She left, she talked to the Ambassador, she talked to John Redmond, she went quickly to the ops room to check an important message, she lingered a little (she didn’t want to get back to Khan yet), then when she at last decided herself, Quinn was just going out of an office, and they almost bumped into each other in the deserted corridor. Carrie was feeling embarrassed, for some reason, while Quinn was – focused on God knows what, because he barely looked at her.

\- Where’s Prince Charming? he asked.

\- Out there on the terrace, waiting for me. Where’s… the Wicked Witch of the West?

\- The hell if I know, he muttered.

Not very professional, but Carrie didn’t care – she was feeling strange, in Quinn’s proximity, which was not a surprise considering what had happened for weeks when they were... in proximity.

\- Going for a wild rump on the cigarette balcony? Quinn asked, again, and it was unnerving, the way he had sometimes, to talk to her without meeting his eyes, and suddenly she was desperate for connection (that word again), for recognition, and she put her hand on his chest, right there on his blue grey shirt.

\- I’d rather go on a wild rump with you, she whispered, and suddenly – brutally – he was dragging her into the empty office, closing the door and a minute later their clothes were off and they were banging it up against the wall, the word “brutally” has to be used here again, there was no talking and no waiting and no tenderness or even friendship (as strange as the word would be in these circumstances) and after, while they were putting their clothes back on, Carrie realized her restlessness was still there, she was still looking for something, missing it. 

Quinn hadn’t said a word. She looked at him putting his belt back, with short, efficient gestures.

\- God, I missed that, she whispered. Did you miss that?

\- No, he breathed, and she shook her head – yeah, she had forgotten what an ass he could be.

\- Fine. Great. Wonderful. Well, now I’ve got to go have sex with him too.

And suddenly Quinn had his hand on her throat – and Carrie’s head banged on the wall – he didn’t hurt her, but it was – almost there – his hand almost crushing and Carrie’s breath caught – what did he want – even wilder sex against the wall again? But it almost looked as if he desired to hurt her – she wasn’t scared though, she had a Scarlett O’hara’s kind of provocation ready in her in case of danger, Quinn’s fingers were still on her throat, his eyes were still on her – anything could happen – so she just smiled and say:

\- Looks like you did miss me a little.

He let her go, put his shirt back without a word. She got back into her dress, she got back to Khan on the terrace, she had sex with him – Khan didn’t notice anything unusual – and after she felt very dirty, in all meanings of the word, but the dirtiest thing of all was – she wasn’t feeling like she had done anything wrong with Quinn. She didn’t feel like she had cheated on Khan (or that she had cheated on her mission), like she should. 

She felt like she had cheated on Quinn. 

Which made no sense.

**

It happened again.

On a Monday (how’s that for happenstance?). At lunch. They had a meeting – with Madam Ambassador, another one, it was nice to see Quinn and Madam Ambassador interact, there was a trust between them, a professionalism that Carrie really appreciated. It made her a little nostalgic of the days when she and Quinn were working so closely together, which didn’t happen often now, and when they were walking back she said:

\- It’s great seeing you like that.

\- Like what?

\- With the Ambassador… You’re a good team worker. You are a good partner. When you have an efficient work relationship with someone – it’s a pleasure to watch. You know, like you and me.

Quinn didn’t answer, didn’t look at her, and it was getting old, this attitude. Carrie stopped, right there. 

\- Hey, asshole! What have I ever done to you?

He turned. 

\- What?

\- Why on earth are you freezing me out?

\- I’m not…

He stopped talking, like it was too much work, he was just looking elsewhere – again – and finally he just shrugged silently.

\- Like strangling me, the other day, Carrie seethed. What was that about?

He did look at her, and for a fleeting second something was back – there was a soul somewhere – a glint of intelligent life.

\- You were not scared.

Carrie’s turn to shrug.

\- I’m not scared of you.

He almost smiled. 

\- Apparently not.

She smiled back, but his smile was gone and he was back being – a stone cold ass.

\- Let’s fuck, she said. Without the strangling thing, please.

They did – in a bathroom stall – and the sex was technically great, and she had an orgasm and everything but she was feeling restless still, and vaguely guilty. 

\- God, she said, putting her panties back. And I’m seeing Khan tonight.

He didn’t answer. He was putting back his belt, without emotion, like last time.

\- I hope you didn’t bruise me, Carrie added. Because, I would really be into deep shit if you did.

He turned to her.

\- Oh, really?

He got closer – Carrie was a little wary, but Quinn just leaned forward her and began to kiss her – and she thought, for a fleeting second, that he was back – that she had found something she didn’t even know she had lost, when suddenly he bit her – cruelly, on the neck, just above the shoulder, a perfect bite, totally engineered to leave the kind of mark which could totally not be misinterpreted.

She yelled – of anger, more than pain.

\- Fuck. Fuck! Shit! You fucker, she said in a lower, furious voice (it wouldn’t do for every member of the team to know what they had just done in there). You did that on purpose!

\- Yes.

\- You – why… Why on earth would do that?

He didn’t answer – just smiled silently.

\- How... how the fuck... am I going to explain that to Khan? Carrie stammered.

\- Get creative.

\- Go to hell, she muttered, her rage growing every second – whatever was this self-destruct wave Quinn was surfing on, she wanted no part of it. Ok, she said. Well, that’s over. Whatever we were doing again – that’s over – again.

\- Yeah. That was the plan.

\- Not “me and Khan” over. “You and me” over.

\- Yeah, he repeated. That was the fucking plan.

\- Yeah, well, don’t come back “begging” this time, she spat. Cause I’m not going to give you another chance.

\- Yeah, well, don’t worry, he said on the same tone. Cause I’m not gonna ask, and… (He gestured towards… her, him, the bathroom stall, the rest of their clothes on the floor). You know, _that_? That’s never gonna happen again.

**

It happened again.

**

And again. 

**

And again.

 

(To be continued!)


	9. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part V)

The next time was four days after. The team was celebrating, everybody drank a lot, Quinn and Carrie got at it in another empty office, without a word. It doesn’t get more pathetic than that, Carrie thought, but it did: the week after that, when they fucked in a janitor’s closet, at Quinn’s initiative this time, and Carrie thought she kept the stench of bleach in her nose, in her mind, in her soul, for days.

After the third time (in an empty, grey stairwell), she cried in her room for a good hour, no idea why.

She felt alone, disconnected. (“Connection”, really the key word of this story – you could also argue something for “hope”, I suppose). She missed her dad, Maggie’s house and the girls – more Maggie’s house than Maggie herself, Carrie realized with a harsh smile, Maggie herself reminded Carrie too much of her failures and inadequacies, but Maggie’s house, and her daughters, symbolized… hearth, light, trust, love and unending loyalty, all those things Carrie never had, never could give and certainly would never receive. And then there was Frannie, of course, or more exactly the thought of Frannie, because Frannie herself was on the other side of the world, a possibility of love and warmth, a reality of estrangement and guilt, and why all these thoughts were emerging now, after an impersonal fuck with Quinn in this dreary passage, Carrie didn’t know, didn’t understand (didn’t try), she just felt that she was wretched, that she was living in a cell, and that somewhere for other people, doors were open and there was breath, and fervor – but not for her, never for her.

Well, at least, after the stairwell thing, she thought – now, things couldn’t get more pathetic.

They did.

Because then came the skanks.

Quinn got a girlfriend. Not a girlfriend, a slut, the ex-mistress of someone at the Italian embassy, a redheaded girl with short hair and too much make up, one of the “expats whore”, as someone in Carrie’s team called them with tact and delicacy. So, anyway, Skank Number One (let’s call her SN1) just popped up one day. Suddenly she was everywhere, in the Embassy cafeteria, laughing and eating with Quinn, she was in the Marriott bar drinking with him, she was waiting for him in the hall and kissing him to say hello (in a very vulgar way, with a lot of tongue). (Wearing a skanky black… stupid… vulgar… ugly… outfit).

But Quinn and Carrie still had sex in an empty office that week, she couldn’t push SN1 out of her thoughts, where that tramp had touched him and how she had touched him and Carrie tried to erase all traces of her on Quinn’s body, and then when it was over, Carrie had a date with Khan, and then she had sex with Khan, cause yes, that was still going on.

Quinn had been right – Carrie had to get creative, fast. With excuses. For Khan. Because sex with Quinn was rough and it left traces. Bruises and bites and – traces, so Carrie became an expert on concealing make up, on wearing scarves and turtle necks – just like a battered woman, how do you like that?

The worse thing was – she was doing a bad job with Khan. It was not so much the bruises and everything, it was her focus. Which was not on Khan, not on her work, it was - Carrie didn’t really know where it was, on the skanks, on her longing for an imaginary home than didn’t exist, on a life she could never had.

And then there was another party in a bar in one of the smaller American hotels – just an inside party, a small one for Ellen’s birthday, a relaxed thing – friends were welcome if you had some, and people just drank and had a good time, except that when Quinn appeared he was already kind of drunk and with TWO skanks – let’s call the other one SN2, shall we? A brunette with huge breasts, and SN1 was here too, drinking and laughing and Carrie felt horrible just watching them. Max was near the beers, drinking alone, and Carrie began to rant about how unprofessional Quinn was being – Max looked at her without reacting, then just walked away – Quinn is embarrassing the team, Carrie thought, drinking with rage – yes, you can “drink with rage”, yes, it’s a thing, and when it was late the few remaining guests went smoking and laughing on one of the upstairs terrace, and there, Quinn kept kissing SN1 and then SN2 and then back to SN1 and how was that even… sanitary? 

Carrie felt nauseated, and went to bed.

**

They had sex in the stairwell again that week. Twice. And then, after, you know, Khan.

**

Quinn and the Skanks. Didn’t it sound like a band name?

**

Suddenly, Carrie stopped everything.

It was too much. Even for her. 

She could see herself spiraling and she just stopped it.

It was a Saturday, she was on Skype, listening to some passive aggressive shit from Maggie, but then Maggie went to fetch Frannie and Frannie smiled at her and giggled and Carrie answered in kind and when the conversation was over, Carrie felt something – some modicum of hopefulness and courage. She forgot about it, till she was naked in Quinn’s arms again, against a pillar in the parking lot and Quinn whispered in her ear (while he was fucking her) “Sorry if I’m not my best with you today, I’ve got to keep a part of my strength for the girls tonight, you know?”

Ok. Carrie just… stopped.

She detached herself from him, slowly, politely. With a smile which was at the same time completely defeated, and completely resolute.

\- Ok. All right. Quinn, you win. You win the game, that’s enough, we stop here, she said with a calm sadness which admitted no repartee. I can’t do this anymore. It’s over for real this time, and you won. 

He didn’t protest. He just watched her silently while she was getting dressed. He was not looking like someone who won, she thought, he looked like… nothing, like there was nothing there but the night. 

No. 

She had reached rock bottom, and she was kicking now. 

\- Good bye, she said, with a hint of melancholy in her voice.

And she left.

**

Just like that, the war was over.

Because it had been a war, Carrie realized it when it ended. The skanks disappeared. Just like that, poof – a magic trick. The tension evaporated. No more angry conversations or aggressive jabs when she and Quinn met in empty corridors. No more rancor, on Carrie’s side anyway. No more anger or jealousy – because it was jealousy she had felt, no need to lie to herself. The world became dull, calm, and safe. Quinn got back to work, she got back to work, she was single-minded and efficient again, Quinn was – who knew. He didn’t talk much.

Then Carrie had the conversation that changed everything – with Max – but that’s two weeks later, we’re not there yet. Let’s just give Carrie a little time to heal, shall we?

She was not healing, to be honest – she was just out. Of this destructive battle Quinn had dragged her in. She was protecting herself, retreating in the safe, protected state of neutrality.

He may be drowning, but he wasn’t taking her with him.

**

Carrie worked. She broke up with Khan – the idea of touching him again made her puke, for some reason. But she was not going to waste all this work, and the relationship she had established was important, so she transformed their interaction into a professional one. They made deals. Trade prisoners. Information. Very useful. 

**

The dreams began.

Carrie didn’t go out in the evenings – she didn’t go to bars or restaurants, she just stayed in her office or in the ops room till very late, then in her room and sleep. She slept well, she was just exhausted, all the time, and suddenly…

The dream.

_They went back to Carrie’s apartment, they made decaf while kissing near the coffee machine, in a very relaxed, casual kind of way, and then they had sex and it was great but it was also – normal, in the best, most wonderful sense of the world, and then they just fell asleep, and the best thing was the morning – he got up first and got two mugs of coffee back to the bed (well, again, one mug and one glass, because Carrie still didn’t own two mugs), and there they just stayed there, in bed, for a while, sipping coffee and reading news on their computers, shoulders touching. Then Carrie kissed him briefly before getting up, like they were this normal couple. Like they’ve been together for years. Like love was a given._

She woke up suddenly. It was morning. 

She stayed unmoving for a minute, thinking. Realizing.

Fuck.

(It was not the only dream. One morning, her eyes still closed, she even patted the mattress, to see if he was here, besides her. You know, a miracle. An apparition.)

(He was not. She was alone, of course.)

And then she had another dream, but this one was so horrible that I’m not going to tell you about it. 

She just stayed awake for hours after, eyes opened in the dark, barely breathing.

**

Then Carrie had the conversation that changed everything.

It was just after the dream – on a Thursday, late in the evening. She had met a woman from the Danish embassy at the Marriott bar for something work related. The woman left, Carrie wrote down a few things, and when she finally got ready to go too she spotted Max, alone, in a dark corner, slumped in a deep leather armchair, getting drunk.

Carrie knew why. Everybody in the station knew why. Max had a thing for Fara, except Fara was serious, not the kind to sleep around with colleagues in stairwells – also, more importantly, Fara was not into Max. And Max had to work alongside her every day. Poor Max, thought Carrie. That had to suck.

The old Carrie wouldn’t have cared – no, that’s not exactly true. The old Carrie would have cared, a little. But old Carrie would have told herself that when you were in that state, you preferred to be left alone – knowing that it was just a pretext to not get herself involved – also, she was bad at comforting people. She sincerely didn’t know how, even when she wanted to.

But she was not old Carrie. She was the Carrie from after. A curious notion, which she pondered silently, still on her stool, watching Max on the other side of the room. The Carrie from after what? After Brody’s death, obviously, but also – she had changed after this strange, twisted, heart wrenching clusterfuck with Quinn. She was the Carrie who had destroyed an important friendship and felt sick about it, the Carrie who had a relationship – (Was it a relationship?) – that she dreamed about now, but had shattered without a thought a few weeks ago, and then shattered again when it transformed into a bizarre sexual masochistic affair (well, to be fair, Quinn’s fault, that time, honestly). 

She was the Carrie who was deeply unhappy, but self-aware - conscious of the profound loneliness, the deep yearnings, drifting just there – she could just raise her hand, and touch them.

That Carrie ordered two glasses of whisky and went to sit near Max.

He looked at her wordlessly, took the glass, and drank.

Carrie slowly sipped her drink, and for a few minutes, they were both lost in their own melancholy.

\- Women suck, Max said, at last.

Carrie couldn’t help chuckling.

\- Yeah, well… You know – we have the same opinion about men. 

\- Right, Max scoffed. Like you suffer so much.

\- You don’t think women have their own… failed romances? Their own personal tragedies?

Maybe Max remembered Brody’s body hanging from a crate, because he shrugged before saying:

\- Ok. Humans suck. 

\- Yeah they do. 

They kept drinking. Carrie went to order some more whisky. Maybe not a good idea, because Max was already pretty drunk, but – desperate times.

Ten minutes passed at least – in a companiable silence. Then Carrie shook her head.

\- Yeah. I’m sorry.

\- For what?

\- Life sucks. (Carrie laughed again.) Damn. We’re having a deep and articulate conversation, are we not? Not repetitive or cliché or anything?

\- Sounds fine to me. 

Silence again. Third round of whisky. Carrie didn’t feel bored – in fact, she felt relieved – maybe misery did love company, after all.

Max looked at her.

\- I have something to say. But I can’t say it to my boss.

\- Is it about work?

\- No. Personal stuff.

Carrie nodded.

\- All right, then, I’m not your boss for the next hour. Anything you said cannot be held against you.

\- For real?

\- I swear.

\- Ok. Then… (Max paused for so long that Carrie thought he was just not going to talk again.) I’m sorry about the Quinn thing. I’m sorry about telling.

\- What Quinn thing? (Carrie sincerely didn’t understand at first.) What are you talking about?

\- When I… told. That Quinn was in love with you. I thought I was talking to Fara only, but one of the guys overheard, and…

Oh, right. Carrie had almost forgotten – that’s what had started this whole mess, weeks, months ago. Quinn had heard about the rumor, and he was so mad, and he told Carrie he didn’t love her, he just wanted to have sex with her, and then – just… yes, the whole horrific, tragic mess.

She shook her head, but her throat was tight. She – almost wanted to cry.

\- Yeah, well, whatever. It had been proved wrong again and again, believe me.

Max just looked at Carrie – and ok, maybe, it was not the conversation with Max that changed everything. It was that bewildered look, right now. That moment. 

\- What? Carrie asked.

Max didn’t answer. He just stared at Carrie with wonder and pain and absolute exasperation, then he shrugged, and then he muttered:

\- Women.

\- What?

\- No, you know what? I was right. Women do suck. (Then Max checked, with a worried look:) You’re still not my boss, right?

\- Still not your boss, Carrie answered, her thoughts – she felt confused.

\- Well, you suck, Carrie. Women suck, not humans, fucking women. They know perfectly what’s happening, come on, you knew perfectly what was happening, and you pretended – fucking women, they pretend to be ignorant and they just smile and look at you with their little sweet smiles and their big brown eyes and they know, ok? They know what that does to you but they want stuff or they want control and they KNOW, ok? They play with you like a cat with a… toy… and that’s all they do, that’s all they learned to do for thousand – millions of years… 

Ok, Carrie thought. That was half misogynistic bullshit, half not about her – but Max was hurting, so:

\- I’m sorry. 

\- You’re not sorry. You did exactly the same thing, Carrie! You did worse, actually. You did a lot worse. Monsters. You’re all fucking monsters, preying on the… Yeah.

Carrie shook her head.

\- Max, she said slowly. Quinn is not in love with me.

\- Oh. Come. On.

\- He’s…

\- Everybody knows, Carrie! And ok, that’s kind of my fault, but even if I had not said… Everybody sees. You know there’s a standing bet?

\- What?

\- Fred’s taking bets. On when Quinn’s gonna blow his head off.

\- What? _What?_

\- When you ditched Quinn and began to sleep with Khan? Fred bet that Quinn was going to put a bullet in his head before two months had passed. People are betting against him, I think there’s 800 dollars in play now or something.

Carrie couldn’t answer – she couldn’t talk – and when she was finally able to utter a sound, she croaked:

\- No. Quinn… No. He only wanted to – it was a friend with benefits thing – he… There were other girls… He brought those girls here…

\- Oh my God, Max said. Oh my God. Monsters. You are all fucking willfully blind dumb hypocritical lying through your teeth fucking monsters.

Carrie didn’t protest, her hands were trembling, she couldn’t say anything – what was there to say, really? Because – of course. Of course – she put her head in her hands – what was this quote? About the incredible speed of thought – when you suddenly understand something, or realize something, and then it – I don’t know, rewires your brain at the speed of light – no place for doubt or protestations – the reality just change, everything becomes obvious, I mean, when Max phrased it like that – it seemed so – evident - her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she put them on her knees, looked at Max.

-You’re still not my boss, though, right? he asked.

She shook her head – she must have been looking really pale, or sick, because Max’s whispered: 

\- Sorry.

Time passed, again. Carrie didn’t know how long. 

\- You have to talk to her, she finally said.

\- Who? Max said angrily. I don’t know what…

\- You have to talk to fucking Fara, Carrie seethed, but there were tears in her eyes. No need to speak in fucking riddles, ok?

Max anger completely vanished. He looked away. He shrugged (again). 

\- And that will achieve… what?

\- You will know… if she is interested or not.

\- She is not. 

\- Well, then it will… (Carrie hesitated, rubbing her forehead.) I don’t know.

\- You know like they say “It’s better to have love and lost”? Max muttered. Well, it’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s better not to have loved, and not to have lost. How obvious is that?

\- I…

Carrie stopped there. She couldn’t talk. Maybe Max couldn’t either, and they just stayed frozen in time for a while, except time was not frozen and half an hour passed before Carrie stood up with a weak smile.

\- The drinks are on me. 

\- Yeah.

\- I’m sorry.

\- Yeah. 

\- You still should talk to her.

Max eyes were shining.

\- Yeah. I won’t.

**

Carrie went back to the Embassy, back to her room, and began to think.

**

She knocked at Quinn’s door around 2 am, fully clothed.

\- What? he asked, on the other side of the door – twenty seconds after – that was quick – maybe he was not sleeping.

\- It’s Carrie.

He opened the door.

\- What? he repeated angrily.

\- Can I come in?

\- No.

\- It’s about work.

He hesitated for a good ten seconds before letting her in. Carrie walked into his living room, went as far from him as possible – to the farthest wall, before turning to him.

\- It’s not about work. But I’m not here for sex either, so don’t throw me out.

\- _What?_

Quite interesting, how his “What” were growing in irritation each time. 

Carrie hesitated.

\- Do you have something to drink?

\- No.

\- Even tea or something?

\- No.

\- A glass of water?

\- No.

\- Your tap water doesn’t work?

\- What do you want, Carrie?

Ok, well. So much for chit chat. For building a mood. For being cautious.

\- You might know I’ve broken up with Khan, she began slowly.

\- Yeah? I know. So what? You want advice on how to get back with him?

\- No. I want to get back with you.

\- Hell no.

\- I’d like… our arrangement back. Not the – fucking in closets – I hated that. I hated it.

\- Really? You fake really well, then. Not that it’s surprising.

Carrie rolled her eyes.

\- Oh for Christ’s sake. Yes, Quinn, sexually, the fucking in dark corners was great. I had my few seconds of paradise and you had too. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about our arrangement, from before. I was… wrong to stop it. I’d like to get it back.

\- Go to hell.

Shit. 

Not very promising. So that guy was in love with her, really? Carrie studied him for a while. Silently. Rationally. The facts said that he was – now that she had her eyes opened, anyway. Yeah, the facts pointed one way, but the actual guy, the one she had in front of her, right now… 

\- What? Quinn repeated furiously – looking at her looking at him. What, Carrie?

\- You made good points last time. Let me quote you: “We like each other. We trust each other. We are both lonely. So let’s sleep together, on a regular basis.”

\- That’s when I trusted you.

\- What? (That hurt.) What on earth? Carrie stammered. What did I ever do to lose that trust?

\- How about ditching me with one fucking sentence in the middle of your office to go fuck a new guy?

\- It was not a betrayal! Carrie protested, getting angry too. It would have been a betrayal if I had fucked him behind your back… Although we did say no exclusivity – but – I ended it before…

\- Yeah. And now you’re bored and Khan’s out, so you want to fuck me again – before dropping me again as soon as a new shiny guy comes along? No fucking way.

She stayed dumbfounded for a few seconds, before realizing – wait. In a way, that was promising. Because he was kind of admitting that… 

\- I wouldn’t do that again, she explained, cautiously. I would take things seriously this time.

\- Sure. (He furrowed his brows.) Wait a minute. What’s in it for you, Carrie? 

\- What do you mean?

\- What is your plan? What do you want from me? Information…? Support? What? 

\- No, I…

\- You never try to seduce a guy if there is nothing out of it for you, didn’t you?

\- Ok.

Carrie bit an angry answer, and fell silent again, thinking. It was infuriating, of course. He was infuriating. But, if she calmed down, if she took some distance… 

This was, again, promising. All this anger. All this… hurt. A guy who just wouldn’t be interested in her would be much calmer – especially Quinn, he was never mean – well ok, he was mean right now – ok, he could be very mean but… He wouldn’t be in these circumstances. Not when she was throwing herself at him. If he wasn’t interested, he would just say the truth (“Sorry Carrie, not interested”), and try to soften the blow a little.

Ok. So it was difficult. But she has done a lot of thinking, in her room, after the conversation with Max, and she had come to a certain number of realizations. She had taken a number of decisions. 

Do you really want the guy, Carrie? The answer was yes, so…

So, go get the guy.

She took a step forward.

\- Yes, Quinn, there is something in it for me. There is you. And, you know, sex, and conversation, and… trust, even if you are being an asshole about it right now, and companionship, and… I miss you. I miss what we had. Again, I’m sorry for ending it.

He didn’t answer. He was totally still, rigid as a statue, not a trace of emotion on his face, but things were happening beneath the façade… Right? 

Suddenly Carrie felt very unsure, the things Max said evaporating, panic beginning to rise.

\- I didn’t betray you. It was just me just being stupid, she said, trying to control her tone.

He shrugged.

\- Well, anyway. I asked for a transfer to Istambul.

\- What? 

Her voice broke – all her careful apparent coolness – evaporating too.

\- I’m going in two weeks – if they accept.

\- Well, un-ask it! Stay!

\- For you? he said, with so much spite – while Carrie was trying to reign her emotions in.

\- Yes. Yes. For me. I didn’t betray you, she repeated. I was a fool – I thought we were having an emotionless arrangement… 

He stared at her.

\- We were. 

\- Ok. 

\- What on earth are you imagining, Carrie? My emotions were not involved. 

\- Ok.

\- I don’t feel anything for you.

\- Ok! Carrie exclaimed. I get it! I remember. You explained it to me, numerous times, during our first date, I remember, ok? But see, I was talking about me. I am not emotionless. I grew attached, during our thing, and I didn’t realize it. At first. I see it now (her voice broke again) and that’s why I’m here.

Stern, unreadable, cold, neutral face. 

\- No.

\- Why? she asked.

He hesitated. 

\- I don’t.... trust you…

And… there.

There it was. The crack in his armor. The voice – his voice had failed a little. A minuscule sliver… of emotion, seeping through. And he had heard it too, he knew he had slipped, he averted his eyes, began to pace the room, stopped, crossed his arms. He rubbed his forehead. Crossed his arms again.

Get the guy, Carrie. Get the fucking guy. 

\- I gave you a second chance, she whispered. When you asked. Can you give me one?

No answer – silence – but not the same kind of silence than before. Nothing has changed, apparently, but everything was changing – just tiny – little – hints – a shivering of the hands, something in the eyes.

New step forward. She was still far from him, anyway. 

\- Do you want me to beg?

\- Shut up. Shut up, shut up, he whispered, not looking at her, don’t do that, just… Shut up… No, he repeated, but there was no pretense of indifference anymore, from any of them, she had tears in her eyes, he had too. (He repeated.) No. You’re just going to…

\- Quinn, I had the most horrible dream…

\- What? 

– This night – this morning – it was – we missed each other, and you… This is what’s gonna happen, she stammered, this is… If we don’t… Don’t you see? This our last chance. For both of us. The last chance. Because if we don’t get together now, you’re gonna die. And I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.

\- What are you talking about? he said, his voice hoarse.

\- I had this dream, ok? Last night. You died. In a million horrible way. You were shot. You were stabbed. You drowned. You were gassed. I saw it happening, for hours – well, maybe not for hours, you know how dreams work, but… You leave here, you leave Islamabad, without me – you die. 

\- It’s just a dream, Carrie…

\- Yeah, it’s a dream, but I’m an analyst. How do you think my brain works? It take hints and clues from real life and – this is really not difficult to intuit, you know? Really not! You’re depressed…

\- I’m not…

\- Alcohol and PTSD and women and depression and you are sinking, Quinn, I can see it happening, and you’re gonna leave, next thing you know you’re accepting the first black ops mission Dar Adal’s throwing at you, and you slip, and you die. That’s what’s gonna happen, doesn’t need to be brilliant to dream it, really, and the other part – about me – well, you don’t need to be a genius too! I had my share of men, and I was unhappy with every fucking one of them – drama, loneliness, or just not – understanding the other – but when we had our thing… God, Quinn… you know? Don’t be… dumb.

He almost laughed.

\- Dumb?

\- Yes. I was dumb, and now you are. Don’t be dumb. Let’s not be dumb. Because if we miss it now… If we miss each other now… Let’s not be dumb. Please.

He paced the room for a while, then he sat on the couch, his head in his hands, then he looked at her, wordlessly. 

\- Just give me a second chance, she repeated, in a very low voice.

He stared intensely at the coffee table, as if it was the most important thing in the room.

And an eternity passed. An infinity of eternities passed, before he finally breathed:

\- What do you… what do you suggest? 

Good. Good. Carrie took a deep breath. God. Yes, it seemed cold, and anticlimactic after her passionate speech, but – tiny steps.

\- Maybe… just… doing the Monday and Wednesday thing again…? she answered, hesitantly. No pressure, but… with exclusivity… and maybe… expectations? You know?

\- What kind of expectations? 

(His voice was still on the same sort of fake neutral.)

\- Well, I’m the one trying to seduce you now, she answered, with a weak smile. So I’m not going to say. Remember? What you told me? “The seducer never reveals his intentions”? 

Actually, Quinn thought, what he said was “James Bond never reveals his intentions” but – James Bond was associated with Khan now, and – no thank you. James Bond was dead and buried, sorry about that, Fleming, but – yeah. Fucking six feet underground, stay there, don’t even claw your way out of the fucking tomb. 

\- I wouldn’t want to scare the guy off with… those expectations, Carrie added. You… being… the guy. Well, you know.

Damn, but she was nervous, she realized. 

\- Fine. Ok, he said. Mondays and Wednesdays. 

\- Ok. 

A long silence. And now she didn't know what to do. He didn't move, didn't help her.

\- I suppose – it’s late… (She wanted to cry - why did she want to cry? She had won. But she felt…) I suppose… I should go…

She walked to the door, then stopped. Quinn got up – from the couch, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal – he was walking toward her – when had it became this huge deal, that Quinn was walking toward her, suddenly?

He stopped. Near her. Didn’t do anything. They looked at each other.

\- I don’t like this “you’re seducing me” concept, he said. I think we can share – the work.

\- Ok.

He didn’t smile, there was no amusement in his voice.

\- And I’m still paying for the meals.

\- Geez, she whispered. Fine. Wouldn’t want to insult your precious masculinity there. 

\- Good.

He raised his hand – touched her neck, her collarbone – the place where he had bit her, she thought – then he lowered his hand – she realized – they were kind of stuck, because she didn’t want to overdo it, and he – well, he was officially still in the “I have no feelings for you” state. They hadn’t contradicted it. Even if it was so obviously bullshit, there were still officially in that… paradigm, she could see him struggling with it, hesitating between – keeping up the charade – or… 

\- What day is it? 

\- Thursday, she answered (and she could hear her voice breaking too.) Well, er… Friday… technically, now.

She touched him, briefly too – brushed his shoulder – then put her hand on his chest.

\- Are you… real? he asked, his voice strained. I… I mean… Are you doing this for real? Not with… an hidden agenda or…

\- This is for real, she breathed.

Her hand was still on his chest. Their foreheads were almost touching. They were whispering again. Carrie, first.

\- Do you want to wait for Monday? 

\- No.

She put her head on his chest, she stifled a short laugh.

\- I can’t even remember – what number we’re at – you know, when we were – counting the kisses?

He shook his head - she thought he was going to say something but then he didn't - and when he looked at her again, they were there, in his eyes, all the emotions that he said didn’t existed.

His hand was trembling. Her breath caught.

\- One, he said, and then he kissed her.

 

(To be continued!)


	10. Every Monday and Wednesday in Islamabad (Part VI)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been more than a month since I updated (sorry again, everyone) so...

It had been more than a month and nothing was resolved.

Every Monday and Wednesday, early in the evening, he gave her “the” look, or she did. Then they went to dinner separately. After, he was at her door or she was at his, and at 6 am the next morning Quinn was gone, after a kiss, but without a word.

There were no dates, no talking. No bantering. Quinn had told Carrie he had no feelings for her, that night, after he had asked for his transfer to Turkey, when Carrie had fought to reclaim him – and he hadn’t contradicted it yet. Carrie knew better, but still the lack of communication was unsettling – the lack of verbal communication at least, because there was a sort of communication between them, she realized, and it was physical. Tenderness. Kissing. Hours of physical intimacy, holding each other, and, of course, sex – Carrie finally got it – Quinn was rebuilding trust in his way, that way. He was getting close, and closer, through touch instead of speech.

(There had been one exception. One night, she had woken up in the middle of the night, drenched with sweat. She must have been screaming, because he was holding her, tenderly, saying: “It’s a nightmare, Carrie. Just a nightmare.” But she kept repeating: “I’ve missed something, Quinn, I’ve missed something, there is something wrong, I know it, I know it, I’ve missed something”, so he held her tighter, caressing her back, whispering, “You’re safe here, Carrie. You’re safe here, in the Embassy. I swear. Nothing will happen to you here, I swear to you.”)

(And she finally believed him, and got back to sleep.)

(But that had been the only time they talked, during the night.)

Carrie was not complaining. Because the sex was awesome, but also because it was connection she was looking for – remember, we decided that “connection” was the key word of this story – and the connection was definitely there. It was there when he took her hand in the elevator (if they happened to meet there), it was there when they kissed before going their separate ways in the mornings. It was there when he embraced her, holding her before they went to sleep – kissing the little spot of sensitive skin on her back, between her shoulders, and some nights she couldn’t take it so she turned over and kissed him back – and he responded passionately – and those were “gratuitous” kisses, didn’t lead to sex – kisses for free – Carrie didn’t get a lot of those when she was having casual sex with strangers, or with Khan, (or really, not even with Quinn when they were in the middle of their stairwell/janitor’s closet destructive affair). 

They were not doing things in the right order, she thought. Their first arrangement had been casual, tender, fun and trustful, with a lot of communication, the kind of relationship you generally get after a few years of a great love story. And now, this second arrangement… It was more the one you generally get at the beginning. 

Passion. Tension, mystery, meaningful silences. Not knowing what the other one was really thinking.

Sure, both arrangements were pretty great. But it felt a little bit like going backward. 

 

** 

_With all those things unsaid._

_(He was running now, pushing Carrie out of his mind - blood everywhere on the walls, bodies scattered on the floor – and then another stairwell, and there he found them – Max and Fara’s – both dead, execution style – the blood here was fresh, dripping on the white walls – but he didn’t even stop, because he had to go down, lower, still running…)_

**

 

It was work, of course, which brought them closer.

They were out, in the streets, after a meeting with an asset in a little grey CIA safe house. They were disagreeing, Carrie was in the middle of a speech, ranting that “he never fucking listened to her anyway and really why should she bother” to which Quinn answered that “he was all ready to listen but could she please begin to make fucking sense” and then “well, Quinn, if you had only HEARD my theory about Haqqani” and then “I heard, I heard, you keep repeating the same fucking thing, Carrie, and as usual you’re not thinking things through”, you know, normal sweet adorable fluffy talk between lovers, and then she just stopped right there, on the middle of the sidewalk. 

\- What? Quinn muttered, exasperated (after having scanned the surroundings for threats, but there didn’t seem to be any).

Carrie stared at him intensely for a while, and Quinn had the fleeting crazy thought, that she was going to say something… er, nice, the kind of romantic thing he dreamed that Carrie would tell him someday – but you know, it might not happen in the middle of a Pakistani street, if ever – and finally she declared:

\- I saw the slime talking to a guy I know in the Marriott bar yesterday.

\- Ok, Quinn commented. This is a little cryptic. First, who is “the slime”?

\- Madam Ambassador’s husband.

\- Ok, Quinn repeated. So, he was talking to… a guy? That you know? From where? 

\- Well, that’s just the thing, Carrie whispered. I don’t remember where I’ve seen that guy. But… 

Quinn could see her spider sense was tingling, so he switched on his too.

\- Ok. I see what you’re thinking, Carrie, but Dennis Boyd can’t be… the traitor. I mean, it can’t be him who switched your meds.

Carrie frowned.

\- Why not?

\- Because… (Quinn had no good answer.) The Ambassador’s husband? How can it be worth the risk? He’d lose everything… 

\- Maybe they have something on him. We knew there was a mole in the Embassy – or at least a leak somewhere…

\- No, we don’t really know that, Carrie. You’re the one who believes… (And then Quinn was silent some more, thinking. Then he said:) Ok. I’ll be right on it.

\- Ok?

\- Yes. I’ll background check the slime. Again. And surveillance is on.

\- Ok. Good. (And then after a silence, Carrie added:) Thank you.

\- Just doing my job. “The slime” is a good nickname, by the way. Feels very accurate.

\- No shit.

**

The conversation resurfaced that night, in Carrie’s room, around 11 pm.

\- You said you were just doing your job, this afternoon, she said suddenly, interrupting their kissing. But it’s more than that. 

They were not naked yet but some buttons had been… unbuttoned. It was generally the part where silence reigned, so Quinn looked at her weirdly.

\- When we work together, she continued, I feel like you trust me. Like you’re here thinking, alongside me. It’s a great feeling.

Quinn sat on the bed.

\- Actually, I spoke with Redmond this afternoon, he said. He has a connection with the slime. I put him up to speed on our suspicions, and he’ll be watching too. Because… I thought about what you said some more, and maybe there’s something there. Remember the Embassy party? The second one?

\- Yes, Carrie answered, a little uneasy.

She had many reasons to remember the second Embassy party, and not all of them were professional ones.

\- Well, after we… in the empty office…

\- Yeah, the part where you strangled me, I remember.

\- Well, after that, said Quinn, I saw the slime… I saw Dennis talking to Tasneem Qureshi in a corridor, and – there’s nothing wrong with that in a party, but… 

\- But…

\- They were alone. And Tasneem threw me a weird glance, and the time I thought it was because she spotted us and she was going to report it to Khan. But…

\- Yes, whispered Carrie. _But._

She sat beside him, and then the mood shifted, both slowly realizing what they had just accomplished. All these weeks, this wall, between them. Talking and working during the days, tense and silent at night - except suddenly the wall had exploded and now days and nights were merging, and Carrie looked at him with a shy smile and he smiled back timidly – and then, back to kissing. 

\- How many? she said, smiling, a few minutes after. You know? The kiss tally?

\- I don’t want to have to count - ever again, he answered, and there were already on the bed, so that was convenient.

They didn’t speak about the strangling incident. For a normal couple – it could have been an issue worth mentioning, but they never discussed it, the why, or her affair with Khan, or what they were feeling at the time. Not any of it.

 

**

_And all those silences, all those bad decisions._

_…no way they were surviving this situation, he thought, no way, in five seconds – maybe, less – they would be all dead so he began to run, crossing the room in a few seconds, caught Carrie like you would catch a ball and dragged her on the other side – gunshots screaming around them and_

**

 

On their next evening together, Carrie brought a whole file in her bedroom to discuss it with Quinn. There was going to be a third big Embassy party, and it had to be carefully prepared, and so after an extremely pleasant sexual interlude, they began to analyse the seating charts together, naked in her bed, in a wonderful, relaxed, casual way. 

\- Is Prince Charming gonna be there? Quinn asked, after a long discussion about Tasreem Qureshi and table three.

Prince Charming meant Khan, of course.

\- Yes, Carrie answered. Here, see? And I’m going to flirt with him, and be nice, but nothing more, because I have a boyfriend now.

Quinn looked at her, bemused.

\- A boyfriend?

\- Well, I’m sorry, what should I be calling you? 

\- What about… The dark and mysterious handsome stranger who comes visit you at night?

\- It’s kind of a mouthful. Let’s try it in a sentence. “Hey, Carrie, how is the dark and mysterious handsome stranger who comes visit you at night and who has absolutely no feelings for you whatsoever”?

Ten seconds passed before Quinn answered.

\- Subtle, Carrie.

\- I am known for my subtlety. 

\- What can I say. I am cold as stone. 

\- Certainly. For instance, when I kiss you like that, you feel nothing.

\- Nothing, he said, when she was done. My heart is made of ice. But you know, you can try again. As many times as you want, really. Don’t hold off because of my absolute lack of reaction.

\- And if I do this, Carrie said, kissing him on the cheeks, on the face, on the lips, little feathery kisses, you still feel nothing.

\- Not a thing. But, again – if you like it – I’d certainly never want to interrupt any pleasure of yours…

\- All right…. And… Like this, she said, her hand going south. Still nothing?

\- I… have… no emotions or reactions… whatsoever…

\- And now?

\- Ggh, was the only thing he managed to say, and the next morning, sure, maybe nothing had been resolved still, but she still woke up in a great mood, and better still, to the smell of coffee. 

He was still there. He has not vanished at 6 am. She stretched, feeling content, and when she saw him foraging around in the cupboards for a glass, she said:

\- I bought a second mug. On the counter, near the apples.

He had a slight hesitation, she could almost hear him thinking, but he didn’t say anything, just filled up the mugs and came back with them.

\- Mmmm, I love this, Carrie breathed, cuddling near. You know, that was my favorite part with our arrangement, I mean, our first arrangement. Drinking coffee with you in bed.

\- Oh that was your favorite part? Should I take this as an insult to my other talents?

\- No, she said, smiling, no insult given, or implied, believe me, and they drank their coffee, silently, happily.

**

So, as it turned out – the slime was indeed the traitor. Dennis Boyd, Madam Ambassador’s husband, had been selling state secrets to the ISI, all this time, and not because of religious faith, not because he suddenly believed Americans were evil oppressors who killed kids named Issa with drones, just because… money, blackmail, weakness, just because he was a slime, mostly.

The extent of the betrayal was unclear. And Carrie had to tell madam Ambassador that the man she shared her life with was despicable, that her career was certainly over because of him. The Ambassador helped them to play her husband – and they didn’t get squat from him. Dennis Boyd was cleverer than expected, or maybe survival instincts kicked in, anyway he was not cooperative.

The following days were strange. The arrest had been kept secret, they had decided to let the situation play out for a while, see what reactions they would get on the Pakistani side with Boyd unexplained disappearance, and everyone felt on edge, waiting for something, anything to happen – a slight paranoia was settling in, one of them, betraying them, "a snake in the grass", Ellen said, and it felt stupid and overly dramatic but also true – they were not safe anymore, and everyone felt it, this little bit of darkness sipping through. 

**

But nothing happened. If Boyd disappearance was causing ripples, they were not visible. 

Tension was growing. The slime was shipped discreetly to the US – where his fate from now on would not be enviable. While they were listening to another group of Haqqani affiliates, they also got info that seemed to indicate that there had been, indeed, a plan to attack the embassy through the tunnel a few weeks ago - the tunnel Carrie had decided to close. At least it was how Carrie chose to interpret the information. And it didn’t help with the general paranoia. 

Business as usual, with a dose of added fear.

**

At night, they were talking, working and joking. And drinking coffee and reading in bed in the morning – so in a way, they were back at step one – back to their first arrangement – except of course it was different, and here the tension was growing too. Carrie waited, and she was right to be patient, because Quinn was the first one to cave. Suddenly he invited her to a date, a real one, at the little local restaurant where they had such a good time three months ago, before the whole bloody ugly business, and after a delicious dinner he asked:

\- So, what are the rules of our… agreement? 

Carrie was taken by surprise – he was sitting next to her, on the cushions, his thumb making little circles on her wrist. 

\- Weren’t the rules established that night? she asked. I mean, when I went into your room to – some could say – sexually harass you?

\- Not really. We were pretty vague about the particulars.

\- I remember you saying you would pay for the meals, Quinn. I liked _this_ rule.

\- And you call yourself a feminist.

\- You insisted, and I thought, ok, fine, I’m giving this one to the patriarchy. I don’t want the patriarchy to feel bad, you know. It’s having a hard time these days.

Quinn smiled, but he had a wary, prudent expression when he spoke again:

\- Our last arrangement was “no pressure, no expectations”.

“No exclusivity” too, but he didn’t say it aloud – there was a bunch of bad memories associated with that particular principle.

\- And I said this relationship was _with_ pressure, and _with_ expectations, Carrie answered slowly, not looking at him. 

He was not looking at her either. But he was still stroking her hand. There was a pause, her heart was pounding, and she knew his was too.

\- All right then, he whispered.

If you have been paying attention to this story, you may have noticed that nothing new had been said – they had used almost the same words in the previous chapter, on “that night”, the one he had asked for his transfer to Istambul, the one where they had restarted everything. But after this particular retread of the conversation, everything was different. 

\- Do you think I should change my life around? Carrie asked, later that night, half asleep in his arms.

That felt different too, (being in his arms) after this conversation (with pressure, and with expectations). 

\- What do you mean? 

\- This is just wrong, you know? This job. This existence. Your husband, working for the enemy, destroying you. The fear we’re all living in, every day. This is not a life.

\- No. It’s not.

\- The things I’ve done, Carrie added, slowly, referencing the conversations she and Quinn had, sooner in the game, when he had just arrived in Islamabad, after the drone strike on the marriage ceremony, when he had talked about being a bad guy.

He answered, in the shadows:

\- The things we’ve both done. 

\- Yeah. 

All those bad decisions we’ve made, he thought, and he put everything in the bag, his son and all those people he killed, all those missions he accepted, all these conversations he never had – and maybe she was looking in her own bag (with all the drone killings and Aayan and bodies, bodies everywhere).

\- Do you think I should get Frannie back? she asked.

\- Yes.

\- That would mean leaving my post here.

\- Please picture an even bigger yes. In all caps.

\- You never wanted to come back to Pakistan.

\- I’m glad I did though.

Carrie kissed him in the dark, she put her head on his shoulder, and then said, without warning:

\- Do you think we’re going to be punished? For all this? Do you think we’re gonna die?

\- For fuck sake, Carrie. What’s with you tonight?

\- Dreams. And… Maybe, a little moral crisis? I am catholic, after all.

\- You are?

\- Kind of.

He didn’t know how to answer that, it seemed so at odds with the Carrie he knew, or maybe not after all – she always wanted to do the right thing, it was just that her definition of the right thing was sometimes a little twisted. 

\- I don’t think it works like that, he finally answered. I don’t think there is a great balance in the sky, floating there just for the purpose of judging us… Or, you know, Saint Peter, at Heaven’s door, weighing our good deeds against our bad.

\- God, I hope not, she whispered.

He imagined it for a second – straight to hell, he’d go – angels screaming and pointing – before getting back to more practical subjects.

\- You can get Frannie back and still work at the CIA. Plenty of operatives are parents.

\- Yeah, maybe I will do it, when this crisis is averted. Maybe I will ask for a transfer back. My dad is not well… Maggie told me. Yes. Maybe I should get back.

And see... there… right there… at this precise moment, things could have been settled. 

She could have asked: “Do you want to come back with me? We could go back together, and continue this… thing. This thing we have. Together. Do you want to?” Or he could have said: “You know Max was right… right? You know that I am in love with you?”. So many things they could have told each other, hidden in the shadows. But this is the story where they all make bad decisions, so he didn’t, but it didn’t faze her, because she knew, and suddenly she had a surge of tenderness, for him and his terrible self-inflicted loneliness – so she took him in her arms, without warning, just holding him tight (wordlessly) – and she felt him tense with surprise, then he relaxed slowly, they stayed like that for maybe one minute, she could feel his heart beating, and then he turned to her and began to (silently) kiss her, and it was so tender, so intimate, that she felt more breathless after it than after all the throes of passion.

**

Then things accelerated.

The third Embassy party went well. Madam Ambassador was perfect, a dead woman walking, with her perfect smile and her perfect clothes, knowing that one day, any day now, they’d make the news public and it would be the end. 

And she was right, because that night Senator Andrew Lockhart in person came to visit.

He appeared suddenly, directly from the airport, entering the room while the party was winding down. Madam Ambassador turned pale - her dismissal impersonated, walking toward her with a suit and a cold smile and polite words. She quickly regained her composure though, she greeted Lockhart pleasantly, and soon the old queen, the new queen and the harbinger of death (Madam Ambassador, Carrie and Lockhart) were sitting at a little table with the rest of the desserts and the dirty coffee cups, deep in discussion, while the last guests were leaving the premises.

Matteo, who had coined the phrase, had been right – Lockhart was the harbinger of death, in more ways than one. Because he was not only here to get rid of madam Ambassador, who was given a fifteen days leave, but he was also here to get rid of Carrie, and during the week that followed, he contradicted every one of her orders, systematically, to push her to quit. Carrie fought bravely back (which was ironic, because she had been so near quitting on her own, a few days before). She thought Lockhart decisions were crazy, especially when the senator sent the marines to the other side of town, to help ISI with a security matter. 

Carrie was not happy, and even less when Lockhart decided to reopen the Embassy tunnel, the first one, the one that she had closed for security reasons - and she still believed that Haqqani had been planning an attack attempt, through this specific tunnel, and that maybe another attack was in the works. The senator didn't believe her, Carrie against Lockhart – it was a clash of titans, with a LOT of profanity. There was yelling. There were threats, fiery accusations of incompetence back and forth – a dozen operatives were watching, fascinated, the end of the screaming match, which happened inside a transparent and partially soundproof conference room, finally Carrie stormed out, Lockhart followed her, and he shouted, in front of everybody:

\- You’re fired!

There was a silence. Carrie stared at him, under shock – everyone was – even Lockhart. He had wanted to push Carrie out, not actually fire her, Quinn thought, and maybe he didn't want her to leave right now, so soon. Carrie kept silent for a few seconds, before muttering:

\- Great. Good. Excellent, actually. I need some air, she added, after a new pause.

She left the room. Five minutes later she sent a text to Quinn, saying “I’m at the Marriott, having a drink. I’m gonna walk around for a few hours. I need to not see that motherfucker face, or I fucking swear, I’m going to do something I regret.” 

Quinn didn’t answer the text, because he was already in Lockhart’s office.

\- Hi, the Senator said. Peter Quinn, right? Please sit down. (He shook his head.) What a clusterfuck, right?

\- Indeed, sir. I want you to accept my resignation.

Lockhart massaged his brow with a weary expression – yeah, he didn’t intend to fire Carrie, Quinn was sure of it, he wanted her to quit a few weeks later, he needed her to do the transition… and now…

\- Why would you quit? (Lockhart sighed.) I know your file. Everybody likes you.

\- I came here to work with… to work for Carrie Mathison, Quinn explained. I have no reason to stay now.

\- “Work with” is an understatement, it seems, Lockhart muttered darkly, and Quinn could very well imagine what lurid details were in his file. Listen, Peter. I need every hand on board right now. It seems I was a little hasty earlier with Mathison... and with Madam Ambassador leaving, things are going to be tough, and…

\- I understand, sir. And I’m sorry. But my decision is final.

Lockhart just sighed again, he leaned down on his seat, and looked very, very tired. 

\- What a fucking mess. We still don’t know what Dennis Boyd babbled about… And the demise of an excellent Ambassador, and our own interests here and… Give me some advice, Peter, and try to be neutral, despite your “entanglement” with your boss. What do you think about this tunnel situation? Is Mathison right? Is there a danger?

\- I don’t know, said Quinn, honestly.

He pondered the question for a minute. Carrie was sure, but…

\- I don’t know, he repeated. Ms Mathison can be overly suspicious, but she has been right more often than most. You might know about the Brody situation…

\- Yeah, Lockhart grumbled, and clearly the memory of the "Brody situation" was not playing in Carrie’s favor.

\- Well, she was suspicious, and she was right. Can I speak freely?

\- Go ahead.

\- Why don’t you call back, let’s say, half of the marines, to guard the tunnel? The only price would be a bit of your pride. If Ms Mathison was wrong, then no harm done, if she was right, you avoid a catastrophe.

Lockhart pondered it for a moment. Then he stood up: 

\- I’ll think about it. Thank you. We’ll be sorry to see you go, Peter. Now get Mathison off the streets before something bad happens.

That was a good idea – God only knew what kind of danger a furious and frustrated Carrie could get herself into. Quinn walked out, took his phone and asked Carrie where she was now, while inside the office Lockhart hesitated, and then he took his phone, and called back the marines – well, half of them. But they were in the middle of a surveillance operation, and so the lieutenant asked for half an hour... and Lockhart hesitated again.

\- Ok, he finally said. Half an hour.

And, remember, when we said this story could be called “The one where they all make bad decisions?” Well, that one was spectacular.

Because ten minutes after, the attack came.

Through the tunnel, and it was a slaughter, right from the start. The Americans were outnumbered, out-gunned, and taken completely by surprise. Most of the remaining soldiers were killed in the first minutes, there was a carnage in the operation room, and after that it was just a bloodbath, screams and machine-guns bursts and death – death everywhere. 

Quinn didn’t remember much of it after, not the beginning anyway, it was just survival; he had run into Lockhart office, screamed at him to get down to the Vault, and the senator had grabbed some sensitive documents and hurried down, Quinn watched the corridor for two minutes to give him some time, his mind racing – Carrie was safe outside, thank God – then he ran in the direction of the gunfight - considering the noise and the screams, their side was losing – but he had to try – at least slowing them down so the Ambassador and other sensitive personnel could get to the Vault too - and suddenly Haqqani guys were shooting at him, Quinn dived into a stairwell and that was the part he didn’t remember well after – going down, step by step, killing people, the noise of gunfire so loud in his ears he actually never completely recovered perfect hearing after, then office to office, door to door, enemies heads exploding on his way, and… bodies, bodies everywhere – his friends’, his colleagues’– Ellen was dead, Matteo was dead, he saw Fred running to get cover somewhere, there was a young African American soldier lying on the floor, his head blown off, this is going to be on every television, Quinn thought, weirdly, diving behind a door – a camera crew is going to film all these corpses, and mine among them – he thought about Carrie again – she, finding his body, then seeing images on the massacre on TV for days - another stairwell, getting near to the Vault and there he found them – Max and Fara’s – both dead, execution style, the blood was fresh, dripping on the white walls – he didn’t even stop, and here he was at last – on site – the Vault, everyone screaming and shouting, Haqqani and his men shooting to kill. The door of the Vault was opened, Madam Ambassador still standing. Others were dead, he recognized one of the interns, lying in a pool of blood, Lockhart on the floor, maybe only wounded and Carrie shouting orders and…

Carrie. 

Carrie. Here. Gun in hand, trying to push the Ambassador into the Vault – how the hell was she – why – maybe she had come back to argue with Lockhart some more, or maybe she had noticed something suspicious, and ran back inside - Quinn felt his breathing stop - he took a fraction of seconds of – pause – trying to analyse – they were all gonna die. No way they were surviving this, no way, in five seconds everybody in the hall would be dead, so he leapt forward, crossing the room in a fraction of second, he caught Carrie like you would catch a ball and dragged her toward the door on the other side – gunshots screaming around them, pure luck if they weren’t hit – in fact he was hit, he felt a bullet going through his arm like a trail of fire, Carrie was screaming “No! The Ambassador! Lockhart!” “They’re dead!” Quinn croaked and they were at the door, he turned to have a last look and yes, they were dead, maybe it hadn’t been true when Carrie asked but it was true when he answered, and of course then the guns turned in their direction, aiming at Carrie first, and they were a few feet from another door, and these few feet were life and death, so he ran, pushing Carrie in front of him – he never forgot those moments, never – counting the bullets that hit Carrie like they had counted the kisses, _one_ – in her arm, in the arm was fine, in the arm was not serious, _two_ \- in her shoulder, the shoulder was not ser– _three_ , in her lower back, “Quinn…” she whispered – and then _four_ , he didn’t see where the last one hit, he just caught her when she fell ( _one, two, three, four_ , the numbers buzzing in his head like bees) – the door had closed behind them, he was climbing the stairs, dragging her, no, carrying her, blood everywhere, on her clothes on his hands - so he was in hell, after all, and the angels had their demented laugh – now he was upstairs, dragging Carrie through the corridors, she was dying in his arms – in fact maybe she was dead already, some of Haqqani men were following them, he turned left, another stairwell and left and right and he kicked the door to an office (the office where they had hooked up that time, it was as if their entire relationship was playing out backwards, each image now marked forever by death and blood) and he laid Carrie down on the carpet...

\- Carrie, Carrie, don’t die, Carrie, I’m here, don’t die yet…

Blood, she was drenched with blood, not dead yet, only half unconscious, he began to check the wounds, his hands trembling.

\- My love, don’t die, don’t die, I’m here, just… Don’t…

Checking... _One_ (bullet) – the arm – no – prioritize, dammit, so _three_ \- the lower back – he couldn’t assess it, his vision was all blurry.

\- Quinn, I think I… she whispered. I think that I…

The bullet had gone straight through (missed the spine) (he thought) (not sure) - the door flew open and one of Haqqani guys entered, Quinn shot him between the eyes before the guy even took a step forward, back to Carrie...

\- Quinn... I think I’ve been hit.... 

\- Yes, I’m, I’m on it, I’m here, I’m, just stay, just stay conscious, I’m here, I’m not leaving you...

But he had to, because they were coming, so he left her fucking bleeding on the floor, tears blurring his vision, she moaned something, maybe his name (she will be dead when I come back, he thought) there were three of them in the corridor, they would have shot her, both of them, if he had stayed, so one step, shoot (one down), turn over, shoot (two, three down), the fourth man was climbing up the stairs, Quinn killed him before he got to the last step, back to the office, then dragging Carrie (still not dead) (still not dead) by a side door in an other, smaller room and barricading both doors with tables and chairs, back to Carrie (still not dead)...

\- Quinn…

\- I’m here…

Ok, _focus, just focus_ , impossible to judge the back wound he had to bandage it but first _four_ the fourth bullet – in her thigh, touched an artery, that’s why all the blood, that was the fucking emergency - he began to improvise a tourniquet but yes, blood, she had already lost so much...

\- I’m here, my love, I’m with you, stay conscious, Carrie, stay with me, Carrie...

… no noise outside – maybe the four guys were the only one who came after them – was there a first aid kit somewhere here? Maybe in the secretary office, on the right – but if he left her – but if he didn’t – he had bandaged her back, tearing his clothes and hers – _take a fucking decision_ and thirty seconds later he was in the other office, he had found the first aid kit, back to Carrie, and the thigh had stopped bleeding… and he checked again… and the artery had not been touched, he just – in the panic he had just thought… 

_Focus._ Bandages. Morphine. 

He thought of all these people, dying alone, and at least she has someone holding her. 

\- Carrie, he said. Carrie, he repeated, but she didn't react, her eyes were closed, and maybe she didn't hear.

And then shots resonated again. The noise of machine gun, making the building tremble. Orders. People screaming. The Marines, somewhere on the first floor. Quinn checked the thigh again – maybe all the blood had made it worse than it had looked. 

He kissed her, her face, blood everywhere - tears in his eyes - she opened hers.

\- Who’s dead? she breathed, after a while.

He shook his head.

\- Everybody.

Downstairs, machine-gun fire was still resonating.

\- Marines?

\- Yes. 

Carrie coughed, a little blood, but her voice had been relatively clear and Quinn's checked her wounds again, and suddenly he had the crazy thought, for the first time since it all began – that they might actually survive this – he tried to analyse again – but it was so hard to think – three of her wounds were not deadly, and the fourth one, in the back, well maybe... if she wasn’t already dead maybe it meant – and now with the Marines there, she would be in a hospital soon, so he just kept holding her, and they just stayed there, on the blood drenched carpet, his back upon the side of the desk.

She was in and out of consciousness. After a while she asked: 

\- Fara? Max? 

\- No.

\- Redmond?

Quinn frowned. Actually... He hadn’t seen Redmond. 

\- He might have made it.

The Ambassador was dead, Quinn was sure of it, but Fred... and maybe Lockhart – maybe he had been wrong, maybe Lockhart was just wounded and unconscious. 

(The gunshots were dying. American voices were shouting orders.)

\- Maybe not everybody's dead, he whispered.

The gunshots stopped. So the good guys has won. He closed his eyes, trying to picture it – the slaughterhouse, downstairs.

\- Am I going to die? she breathed.

\- I don’t think so, he succeeded to utter – and it was sincere. (He forced a smile.) But you are pretty messed up.

She laughed, and coughed blood again.

\- I think now I’m out of a job for real.

\- Yeah.

\- Are you still going to love me when I’m starving in the street begging for money?

He held her tight – couldn’t answer for a while – all those bad decisions, all those things unsaid – but they were alive, both of them, and it didn’t matter, none of those things did.

\- Yeah, he repeated. I will. I will.

He was feeling dizzy – he had been shot also, he had forgotten – the left arm – nothing serious, except, he was so cold, maybe he was going into shock. 

\- Why on earth did you want to go to Istambul? Carrie asked.

\- What?

Then he remembered – the transfer he had asked for at the time.

\- Istambul sucks, she muttered. You were leaving me.

\- Istambul doesn’t suck. Istambul is one of the most wonderful cities in the world.

\- You’re better here with me, she answered, and then she passed out – her heart was beating normally, her breathing was uneven but... the sound of heavy steps, in the stairwell, and American voices again, going up, and he was in a weird state, maybe he was losing consciousness too, and he thought about what Carrie had said, that night: “If you leave me… If we don’t get together now, you will die”, but actually, if he had gone, _she_ would have died...

... But still, he saw them, for a second... the images of this parallel life, a life where he had left, where he had gone, on another plane, for another mission, in another country - somewhere far with desert and killings - and after - his irrelevant existence - he saw it all, the endless nights, the empty years. 

His pointless kills, meaningless death.

\- Yes, he whispered. I’m better here with you.

 

 

(The End.)


End file.
